This  li 

°,  6  1 


Form  L-9-5m-12,' 


„ 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH; 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 

U-OS  ANGELES,  CALIF, 


NEW    ENGLAND    AND    ITS    NEIGHBORS 


*u  14 


SPRINGTIME  IN   AN   OLD  GARDEN 


NEW      ENGLAND 


AND     ITS     NEIGHBORS 


IB 


WRITTEN    AND 
ILLUSTRATED    BY 


Published  by  THE    MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

New    York  McMII 

LONDON  :    MACMILLAN    AND   CO.,    LIMITED 


HtC 
\  8  O 


Copyright,  iqoi 

by  The  Afacmill&n  Company 


Set  up  and  electrotypcd  September, 
1902.     Reprinted  November,  iyoz. 


EUctrotyped 

and 

Printed 

at  the 

Norwood  Press 

Norwood,  Mass. 


A  CONSIDERABLE  portion  of 
the  material  included  in  this 
volume  was  first  published  in 
The  Outlook,  Woman's 
Home  Companion,  The  Pil- 
grim, Frank  Leslie's  Popu- 
lar Monthly,  The  New 
England  Magazine,  The 
Boston  Transcript,  Town 
and  Country,  The  Interior 
and  in  Harper's  Weekly. 


J 


Contents 

Page 

I.  Midwinter  in  Valley  Forge       .....           i 

II.  When  the  White  Mountains  are  White       ...        24 

III.  A  Ruin  beside  Lake  Champlain          .  .  .  .52 

IV.  In  the  Adirondacks         ......        70 

V.  The  Home  ot  Fenimore  Cooper        .           .           .           .106 

VI.  An  Historic  Town  in  Connecticut    .           .           .           .124 

VII.  A  Jaunt  on  Long  Island            .           .           .           .           .147 

VIII.  Life  on  a  Green  Mountain  Top         .           .           .           .168 

IX.  Down  in  Maine    .           .           .           .           .           .           .196 

X.  Along  the  Juniata             .           .           .           .           .          .215 

XL  Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  .....      240 

XII.  A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the  Hudson          .           .           .      264 

XIII.  The  Autumn  Cattle  Show 287 

XIV.  Cape  Cod  Folks 313 


UOS  AT4GBUE&,  CAli. 


List   of  Illustrations 

Page 
Springtime  in  an  Old  Garden     ....  Frontispiece 

In  Valley  Forge       ........  i 

Valley  Forge  Pond  ......  Facing          4 

The  Site  of  the  Old  Forge 8 

One  of  the  Bridges  over  "Valley  Crick"     ....  9 

The  Schuylkill  at  Valley  Forge  .          .          .          .          .          -13 

A  Valley  Forge  Footpath  .....  Facing        \  8 

The  Entrance  to  the  Headquarters  Mansion  .          .          .          .21 

The  House  which  was  Washington's  Headquarters  .  .        2} 

A  Woodland  Teamster      .......        24 

A  Load  of  Logs  on  a  Forest  Roadway  .  .  Facing        26 

Work  at  a  Logging-camp  Landing        .  .  .  Facing        33 

The  Choppers         . 35 

A  Woodsman's  Rocking-chair     .  .  .  .  .  -37 

A  Mountain  Ox-team        .....  .40 

In  the  Sleeping  Apartment          ....  •        43 

A  Corner  of  the  Camp  Kitchen  .....        46 

A  Sealer Facing        48 

A  Logging-camp  Dwelling          .  .  •        51 

Considering  his  Neighbor's  Fields         .          .          .          .          .52 
In  Crown  Point  Village     .......        54 


x  List  of  Illustrations 

Page 
Mending  the  Pasture  Fence         .  .          .  Facing        56 

A  Lake  Cham  plain  Ferry  .       -  .          .          .          .  Facing        59 

Rhubarb         .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .61 

Ticonderoga  Ruins  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .65 

The  Pasture  in  which  stand  the  Old  Fortifications  ...        69 
A  Fisherman  .........        70 

An  Adirondack  Farmer      .....  Facing       77 

Shelling  Seed  Corn  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .80 

Bringing  in  the  Cows  after  their  Day's  Grazing      .  .  .82 

Picking  up  Chips     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .85 

The  Kitchen  Door  of  a  Log  House      .          .          .  Facing       89 

Sowing  Oats  .........        93 

Spinning  Yarn  for  the  Family  Stockings          ....        96 

A  Home  in  a  Valley          .......        99 

A  Roadside  Chat     ...          .          .          .          .          .          .105 

On  Cooperstown  Street     .          .          .          .          .          .          .106 

Looking  toward  the  Town  from  an  Eastern  Hillslope       .          .109 
The  Margin  of  the  Lake  .....  Facing      1 1 1 

Putting  on  a  Fresh  Coat  of  Paint          .          .          .          .          .113 

Getting  Ready  to  plant  his  Garden      .          .          .  Facing      \  1 5 

Spring  Work  in  a  Farm  Field     .          .          .          .          .          .117 

The  Monument  on  the  Site  of  Otsego  Hall  .          .  Facing     1 19 

The  Graves  of  J.  Fenimore  Cooper  and  his  Wife  .          .          .123 
Setting  out  the  House-plants       .          .          .          .          .          .124 

Saybrook  Street        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .125 

In  a  Back  Yard        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .128 

Ploughing  out  for  Potatoes  .          .          .          .          .          .130 


List  of  Illustrations  xi 

Page 

A  Roadway,  on  the  Saybrook  Outskirts           .          .  .          .131 

Drawing  a  Bucket  of  Water        .          .          .          .  Facing     134 

In  the  Old  Cemetery        .          .          .          .          .  .          .137 

Cleaning  up  the  Back  Yard         ....  Facing      141 

The  Seaward  Marshlands             .           .          .           .  .           .146 

Starting  the  Garden  Parsnips       .           .           .           .  .          .147 

A  Long  Island  Stile           .....  Facing     149 

On  Easthampton  Common          .           .           .           .  .           .152 

The  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  House.          .          .  .          .155 

An  Old-fashioned  Sitting  Room  .          .          .       .    .  .159 

A  Toll-gate  on  a  Seven  Cent  Road      .          .          .  .          .161 

Making  Fence  Posts           .....  Facing      165 

A  Windmiller           .           .           .           .          .           .  .           .166 

Along  Shore  at  Sag  Harbor         .           .           .          .  .           .167 

Tinkering  the  Road            .           .          .           .          .  .          .168 

At  the  Schoolhouse  Door  .           .           .           .           .  .          .171 

A  Trout  Stream       .           .           .           .           .           .  .           .174 

The  Fiddler   .......  Facing      179 

Grandpa  gives  the  Boys  some  Good  Advice  .           .  .           .181 

The  Rain-water  Barrel      .           .           .          .           .  .          .184 

Taking  Care  of  the  Baby  .....  Facing      191 

The  Lonely  Little  Church           .           .           .           .  .           .193 

A  Home-made  Lumber  Wagon  .           .           .           .  .           .195 

A  Mount  Desert  Well       .          .          .          .          .  .          .196 

A  Lobster-pot          .          .          .          .          .          .  .          .199 

A  Home  on  the  Shore       .          .          .          .          .  .          .201 

Summer  Calm          ......  Facing     202 


xii  List  of  Illustrations 

Page 
The  Post-office  PIAZZA       .  .          .          .  Facing     206 

An  Old  Schoolroom          .          ...          .          .          .          .210 

A  Moonlit  Evening  .          .          .          .          .          .          .214 

The  Home  Porch    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .215 

The  Dooryard  Fence         .          .          .          .          .          .          .218 

After  the  Day's  Work       .....  Facing     220 

Typical  Outbuildings         .          .          .          .          .          .          .224 

A  Grist-mill 225 

Making  Apple-butter         .          .          .          .          .          .          .227 

Childhood  Treasures          .          .          .          .          .          .          .230 

Farm  Market  Wagons       .          .          .          .          .          .          .232 

One  of  the  Street  Pumps  .          .          .  .  Facing     237 

On  a  Village  Sidewalk       .          .          .          .          .          .          .238 

The  Juniata    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .239 

Old-fashioned  Churning    .......      240 

Digging  Potatoes  in  a  Weedy  Field      .          .          .          .          .      242 

A  Home  on  the  Mountain  Side  .....      245 

The  Buckwheat  Thresher  —  Fair  Weather  or  Foul  ?         .          .      247 
A  Morning  Wash  at  the  Back  Door     .          .          .  Facing      251 

On  the  Way  to  the  Barn  to  help  Milk  .          .  Facing     254 

Making  Soft  Soap    ......  Facing     257 

Binding  Indian  Corn          .......      260 

Considering    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .263 

Trading  with  a  Bumboat  .......      264 

The  Call  to  Dinner  .....  Facing     267 

Visiting  .          .          .          .          .  .          .          .      272 

Drawing  Water       ........      274 


List  of  Illustrations  xiii 

Page 
Two  Canal-boat  Captains  ....  Facing      277 

The  Steamer  dragging  the  Tow  .  .  .  .  .281 

House-cleaning  Time         .....  Facing      282 

Arriving  in  New  York       .          .          .          .          .          .          .286 

The  "  Nigger "  Target     .  .    • 287 

Children  Sightseers  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .291 

Without  the  Gate    ........      293 

The  Stage  from  the  Neighboring  Town          ....      294 

The  Cavalcade  of  Oxen    .......      299 

On  the  Grounds      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .301 

To  Buy  or  Not  to  Buy     .....  Fticing      303 

Cooking  Apparatus  at  the  Rear  of  the  Eating  Tents  .  .      307 

The  Pounding-machine      .....  Facing      309 

Five  Cents  a  Throw  at  the  Dolls          .  .  .  .  3 1  z 

A  Village  Sign         .          .          .          .          .          .          .          •      3 '  3 

Anchoring  his  Haystacks   .  .  .  .  .  .  .316 

An  Autumn  Corn-field      .  .  .  .  .  .  .319 

A  Cranberry  Picker  .  .  .  .  .  .  .321 

Harvest  on  a  Cranberry  Bog       .  .  .  .  .  .322 

In  Provincetown      ......  Facing      325 

Looking  over  the  Cod  Lines        .          .          .          .          .          .327 

An  Old  Wharf"        ......  Facing      330 

Public  Buildings  on  the  Hilltop  .  .  .  .  .  -33' 

A  Cape  Cod  Roadway      .          .          .          .          •          •          -333 

The  Mowers  on  the  Marshes      .  .  .  .  .  -335 


Introductory    Note 

THIS  book,  like  its  predecessors  and  those  that  may 
follow  it,  is  primarily  a  study  of  the  rural  aspects  of 
national  life.  The  historic  or  literary  background  that 
some  of  the  chapters  have  is  only  incidental  and  is  in 
no  case  introduced  for  its  own  sake.  The  general 
title  of  "  Highways  and  Byways,"  adopted  for  the 
American  series,  indicates  very  well  the  writer's  itin- 
erary ;  but,  as  for  the  highways,  it  is  their  humbler 
features  1  love  best,  and  it  is  these  I  linger  over  in 
my  pictures  and  my  descriptions.  Wherever  1  go  the 
characteristic  and  picturesque  phases  of  the  local  farm 
environment  always  appeal  strongly  to  me,  and  in 
what  I  have  written  I  have  tried  to  convey  to  others 
the  same  interest  I  have  felt,  and  at  the  same  time 
have  endeavored  to  give  a  clear  and  truthful  impression 
of  the  reality. 

Clifton  Johnson. 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


In  Valley  Forge 
u 


MIDWINTER    IN    VALLEY    FORGE 


MY  impression  had  been 
that  Valley  Forge  was  a 
wild  glen,  high  among 
the  mountains,  where  winter  frosts 
and  snows  held  unrelaxing  sway 
for  many  long,  dark  months  every 
year.  But  in  reality  its  situation 
is  neither  lofty  nor  remote,  and 
the  rigors  of  the  cold  are  not 
nearly  what  they  are  in  the  states 
farther  north.  Comparatively  lit- 
tle snow  falls,  and  often  there  is 
not  a  week's  sleighing  the  winter 
through. 

The  Valley  is  only  twenty-three 
miles  from  Philadelphia,  with 
which  it  has  direct  connection  by 
a  railroad  that  skirts  along  the 
Schuylkill  River.  When  you  alight 


2  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

from  the  train  you  find  a  diminutive  station,  and,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  tracks,  a  freight-shed  and  an 
ancient,  broken-roofed  mill.  But  immediately  beyond 
the  old  mill  is  the  colonial  mansion  which  was  Wash- 
ington's headquarters,  and  beyond  that  lies  the  vil- 
lage—  a  straggling  little  place,  scattered  along  several 
diverging  roads.  A  good-sized  stream  courses  north- 
ward through  the  midst  of  the  hamlet  to  join  the 
Schuylkill,  and  beside  it  are  two  mills.  These,  like 
the  one  adjoining  the  station,  are  vacant  and  crumbling. 
The  smaller  of  the  two  is  mostly  constructed  of  wood. 
The  other  is  of  brick  —  a  great  barrack  of  a  building, 
painted  white,  with  tiny-paned  windows  of  days  gone 
by.  Near  it  stand  some  rows  of  dilapidated  mill  cot- 
tages gradually  dropping  to  pieces ;  and,  taken  alto- 
gether, a  melancholy  air  of  industrial  ruin  hangs  over 
the  Valley. 

A  massive  dam  stems  the  stream  above  the  big  mill, 
but  the  water-power  is  in  no  way  utilized,  and  the 
manufacturing  of  the  present  is  confined  to  a  racka- 
bones  structure  on  the  western  outskirts  of  the  village, 
where  a  stone-crusher  reduces  to  sand  a  peculiar  rock 
from  an  upland  quarry.  About  five  car-loads  of  sand 
are  turned  out  daily  and  shipped  away  to  foundries, 
for  use  in  making  moulds. 

My  acquaintance  with  Valley  Forge  began  in  the 
early  evening  of  a  day  in  February.  I  walked  from 
the  station  to  the  village  and  looked  about  vainly  in  the 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  3 

dusk  for  a  hotel.  Finally  I  appealed  to  a  passer,  who 
pointed  out  one  close  by.  It  was  girded  around  by 
ornamental  piazzas  and  surmounted  by  a  very  fancy 
cupola,  and  I  had  mistaken  it  for  some  gentleman's 
villa.  Moreover,  its  spacious  grounds  were  adorned 
with  fine  trees  that  gave  a  touch  of  the  idyllic,  though 
the  lager-beer  signs  which  their  trunks  supported  were 
something  of  an  offset  to  this  impression.  Winter 
visitors  are  rare,  and  I  took  the  landlord  by  surprise. 
He  explained  apologetically  that  his  cook  had  just 
left,  and  he  and  his  father  were  the  only  persons  in  the 
house.  They  were  going  to  shift  for  themselves  until 
they  found  another  cook,  but  if  I  wanted  to  lodge  with 
them,  he  would  get  some  neighbor  to  come  in  and  help 
in  the  kitchen.  I  accepted  the  situation,  and  after  I 
had  disposed  of  my  luggage  I  started  out  for  a  walk. 

Jt  was  a  pleasant,  quiet  night,  with  a  halt-moon  high 
in  the  sky.  The  ground  was  mostly  bare,  and  the 
wheeling  on  the  frost-bound  roads  could  hardly  have 
been  better.  Only  under  shadowed  banks  and  on  the 
northward-sloping  hills  was  there  snow,  though  the 
streams,  wherever  the  cold  had  a  fair  chance  at  them, 
were  frozen  tight  and  fast.  Much  of  the  valley  was 
overflowed  by  a  long,  narrow  pond  that  set  back  from 
the  dam  of  the  large  upper  mill.  On  the  borders  of 
this  pond  I  came  across  a  young  fellow  regarding  the 
ice  attentively,  and  1  spoke  to  him.  He  had  been 
testing  the  surface  with  his  heels  to  see  if  there  was 


4  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

skating,  and  had  concluded  it  had  been  too  much 
softened  by  the  heat  of  the  day,  but  that  it  would 
harden  up  all  right  during  the  night.  "A  good  many 
come  here  skating,"  he  said  —  "mostly  Sundays,  and 
other  days,  and  some  nights,  and  daytimes,  too." 

I  asked  him  what  the  name  of  the  stream  was,  and 
he  replied  that  he'd  "  be  hanged  "  if  he  knew.  He'd 
never  heard  it  called  anything  but  "  the  dam." 

Then  I  inquired  the  name  of  the  larger  stream  to 
the  north;  but  he  had  to  "be  hanged"  again  —  he'd 
lived  here  twenty  years,  all  his  life  —  and  never  heard 
it  spoken  of  as  anything  except  "  the  river." 

This  was  not  very  encouraging,  but  when  we  con- 
tinued our  chat  I  found  his  information  about  the  vil- 
lage itself  more  definite  and  satisfactory.  Some  of  the 
people  depended  wholly  on  their  little  farms,  but  the 
majority  of  the  male  population  were  either  employed 
at  the  quarry  on  the  hill  and  the  stone-crusher,  or  at  a 
brick-yard  about  two  miles  distant ;  and  ten  or  twelve 
of  the  village  girls  went  daily  by  train  six  miles  down 
the  river  to  work  in  a  cotton-mill.  He  told  how 
crowds  of  people  flocked  to  the  Valley  in  the  summer, 
some  to  stay  several  days  or  weeks,  but  mostly  picnick- 
ers who  came  in  the  morning  and  went  in  the  late  after- 
noon. There  were  boats  to  let  on  the  pond,  and  the 
summer  people  "  rowed  and  fished  and  caught  carp 
that  weighed  thirty  pounds." 

I  mentioned  that  from  up  the  hill  where  I  had  been 


VALLEY  FORGE  POND 

On  the  hill  in  the  background  were  the  most  important  of  Washington's  fortifications 


I»OS 


,  Cflfc. 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  5 

before  I  visited  the  pond  I  had  seen  what  looked  like 
the  lights  of  a  town  off  to  the  northeast. 

"  Were  the  lights  all  in  a  bunch  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  responded. 

"  That's  a  protectory." 

"A  what?" 

"A  protectory  —  some  big  buildings  where  they 
keep  boys  —  boys  that  have  been  bad.  A  lot  of 'em 
got  away  last  July  —  took  the  sheets  off  their  beds  and 
tied  'em  together  and  shinned  down  on  'em  from  a 
window.  They  started  off  for  Philadelphia,  but  they 
were  all  caught." 

My  companion  had  no  overcoat  on,  and  he  began  to 
get  shivery.  So  he  turned  his  collar  up  a  little  closer 
about  his  ears  and  said  he  guessed  he'd  go  over  to  the 
store.  I  turned  in  the  other  direction  and  walked  up 
the  pond  on  the  ice.  The  village  lay  behind  me, 
wooded  hills  rose  on  either  side,  and  with  the  moon- 
light glistening  on  the  ice,  the  scene,  in  spite  of  its 
loneliness,  was  pleasantly  romantic. 

When  I  returned  to  the  hotel  the  evening  was  well 
advanced  and  I  soon  retired.  I  wished  afterward  I 
had  sat  up  later,  for  I  had  the  coldest,  most  unsympa- 
thetic bed  I  have  met  with  in  all  my  experience. 
There  were  plenty  of  blankets  and  quilts ;  but  the 
foundation  was  a  corn-husk  mattress  that  had  apparently 
been  absorbing  frost  for  months,  and  I  did  not  get 
comfortably  warm  all  night. 


6  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

In  the  morning  one  of  the  village  women  had  charge 
of  the  kitchen  and  prepared  the  breakfast.  I  had  just 
come  down  to  the  office  when  she  put  her  head  in  at 
the  door  and  asked,  "  Will  yees  eat  now  ?  " 

The  two  men  of  the  establishment  rose  and  led  the 
way  through  several  cold  vacant  rooms  and  passages 
to  the  rear  of  the  house.  They  themselves  ate  in  the 
kitchen,  but  I  was  directed  to  a  corner  of  one  of  the 
tables  in  the  adjoining  dining  room.  It  was  not  a  very 
sociable  arrangement,  and  I  liked  it  the  less  because  the 
little  stove  at  my  elbow  only  succeeded  in  tempering 
the  chilly  atmosphere  of  the  big  apartment.  Conver- 
sation was  confined  to  a  few  remarks  passed  with  the 
substitute  cook. 

"  I've  had  to  spind  the  biggest  part  of  me  time  here 
this  winter,"  she  said.  "  The  young  girruls  the  hotel 
do  get  will  not  stay.  It  is  too  cowld  and  lonesome. 
They  likes  the  city  betther ;  and  so  I  have  to  be  always 
runnin'  in  to  help  from  my  house  that's  up  here  for- 
nent  the  ould  mill." 

I  noticed  her  house  later  in  the  morning  when  I  was 
out  walking.  Around  it  was  much  litter  and  a  curious 
conglomeration  of  patched-up  shanties  for  the  domestic 
animals,  which  included  a  lively  brood  of  nondescript 
fowls  and  a  sober  family  goat.  All  in  all  the  place 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  transplanted  bodily  from  the 
woman's  native  Ireland. 

That  visitors  to  the  Valley  were  many  was  attested 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  7 

by  the  numerous  wayside  signs  warning  against  tres- 
passing. These  were  a  characteristic  and  predominant 
feature  of  the  landscape.  They  were  set  up  on  posts 
and  tacked  to  trees  and  fences  everywhere  and  sug- 
gested a  wild  raid  of  tourists  in  the  season.  Most  of 
them  threatened  you  with  the  law,  but  others  confined 
themselves  to  a  laconic,  "  Keep  Off!  " 

The  day  was  gentle  and  springlike,  the  atmosphere 
full  of  haze  and  odorous  of  coal  gas  from  the  engines 
of  the  freight  trains  that  were  constantly  throbbing  and 
hissing  along  the  railway.  The  mildness  of  Nature's 
mood  made  it  far  from  easy  to  call  up  the  mental 
picture  of  the  hardships  of  that  far-gone  winter  when 
Washington  was  there,  and  any  sentiment  of  seclusion 
was  impossible  with  that  noisy,  sulphurous  railroad 
immediately  at  hand  and  the  knowledge  that  it  could 
carry  me  straight  to  the  heart  of  Philadelphia  in  little 
more  than  half  an  hour. 

I  think  the  casual  student  of  history  fancies  that 
Valley  Forge  sheltered  the  whole  patriot  army.  On 
the  contrary,  only  a  small  portion  of  the  troops  dwelt 
there.  At  the  rear  of  Washington's  headquarters  the 
life  guards  were  encamped,  and  across  "  Valley  Crick  " 
were  General  Stirling's  men  ;  but  the  rest  of  the  army 
was  over  the  hill  eastward.  The  area  of  ground  suit- 
able for  camping  in  the  Valley  itself  is  not  large,  for  to 
the  south  it  almost  at  once  becomes  a  narrow,  irregular 
defile  hemmed  in  by  steep  slopes  of  loose  stones. 


8 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


A  half  mile  up  the  ravine  stood  the  old  forge  —  an 
iron-working  plant  that  was  established  long  before  the 
Revolution,  and  that  was  known  in  its  earlier  days  as 
the  Mount  Joy  forge.  It  did  a  flourishing  business 
and  employed  many  men  and  teams.  John  Potts,  a 
Quaker,  purchased  it  in  1757,  and  immediately  after- 
ward built  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek  a  flour-mill  and 


The  Site  of  the  Old  Forge 

a  stout  stone  residence.  Just  before  the  war  this  dwell- 
ing and  mill  passed  to  his  son  Isaac,  in  whose  posses- 
sion they  were  when  Washington  made  his  official 
home  in  the  house. 

Another  half  mile  up  the  Valley  beyond  the  site  of 
the  old  forge  the  hills  cease  and  the  road,  which  hitherto 
has  been  creeping  along  the  margin  of  the  stream,  goes 
through  a  covered  wooden  bridge  of  picturesque  type 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  9 

and  strikes  off  in  several  divisions  across  the  rolling 

o 

farmlands  that  sweep  away  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see. 
On  this  side  of  the  hills  all  the  oldest  farm-houses  for 


One  of  the  Bridges  over  "  Valley  Crick" 

miles  around  were  headquarters  of  Revolutionary 
generals  in  that  dismal  winter  —  of  Lafayette,  of 
Knox,  Stirling,  and  others  —  substantial  structures  of 
stone  that  bid  fair  to  last  for  many  generations  yet. 

While  looking  about  over  here  I  met  a  man  trudging 
along  smoking  his  pipe.  He  wore  an  overcoat  dyed  the 
color  of  rust  by  long  exposure  to  the  sun  and  weather, 
and  under  his  arm  he  carried  a  bag.  I  made  some 
inquiry  about  the  road,  but  he  could  not  help  me. 
He  said  he  did  not  often  come  up  this  way.  His 
tramping  ground  lay  more  to  the  south.  All  the 
farmers  there  knew  him  and  let  him  sleep  in  their 


io  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

barns.  He  made  a  business  of  gathering  water-cresses 
in  the  brooks,  but  they  had  been  all  frozen  by  recent  cold 
weather,  and  he  could  get  none  to  fill  his  bag  to-day. 

I  at  length  took  a  byway  leading  toward  the  heights, 
and  soon  was  in  the  brushy  woods,  where  I  found  the 
snow  lying  six  or  eight  inches  deep.  As  I  approached 
the  summit  of  the  hills  I  came  on  the  old-time  intrench- 
ments  skirting  around  the  crest  of  the  ridges.  They 
were  not  imposing,  yet  they  were  clearly  marked  —  a 
ditch,  and,  behind  it,  a  low,  flattened  embankment  with 
a  path  along  the  top  kept  well  trodden  by  sightseers. 
I  followed  this  sinuous  line  whitened  by  the  snow  for 
some  distance.  The  hilltop  was  very  silent.  At  times 
I  heard  the  cheerful  twitter  of  the  chickadees,  and  once 
a  hound  came  baying  through  the  trees,  with  his  nose 
to  the  ground,  zigzagging  after  a  rabbit  track.  A  hawk 
circled  high  overhead  and  turned  its  head  sidewise  to 
get  a  look  at  me,  and  somewhere  down  in  the  Valley  a 
bevy  of  crows  were  cawing. 

A  little  below  the  intrenchments  were  the  heavy 
earthwork  squares  of  two  forts,  one  commanding  the 
approaches  from  the  south,  the  other  from  the  east. 
An  outer  line  of  intrenchments  was  thrown  up  about  a 
mile  from  those  on  the  hills  ;  but  they  lay  through  the 
cultivated  farm  fields  and  have  long  ago  disappeared. 
Between  the  two  lines  of  earthworks  the  main  army 
was  stationed,  and  there  the  soldiers  put  up  their  little 
log  huts.  On  the  bleak  December  days  while  these 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  u 

were  building  and  the  work  of  fortifying  was  going  on, 
the  troops  had  no  shelter  save  their  tents.  The  huts 
were  sixteen  feet  long,  fourteen  wide,  and  six  and  one- 
half  high.  They  were  banked  up  outside  with  earth, 
and  the  cracks  between  the  logs  were  chinked  with 
clay,  while  the  roofs  were  of  logs  split  into  rude  planks 
or  slabs.  The  buildings  were  regularly  arranged  in 
streets,  and  each  was  the  home  of  twelve  men. 

Every  cabin  had  at  one  end  a  fireplace  of  clay- 
daubed  logs,  but,  with  the  bare  earth  floor  underfoot, 
comfort  must  have  been  well-nigh  impossible.  Besides, 
the  winter  is  reputed  to  have  been  uncommonly  cold 
and  snowy,  and  the  men  were  very  inadequately  clothed 
and  fed.  Sometimes  they  were  without  meat,  some- 
times even  lacked  bread.  Disease,  too,  was  rampant, 
and  smallpox  ravaged  the  camp.  Privation  made  the 
troops  mutinous,  and  at  times  it  seemed  as  if  "  in  all 
human  probability  the  army  must  dissolve,"  and  the 
actual  strength  of  the  army  was  reduced  to  barely  four 
thousand  who  could  be  depended  on  for  service.  Wash- 
ington affirmed  on  December  2jd  that  over  twenty-nine 
hundred  men  were  ineffective  "  because  they  are  bare- 
foot and  otherwise  unfit  for  duty."  Scarcity  of  blankets, 
he  says,  compels  numbers  to  "  sit  up  all  night  by  fires, 
instead  of  taking  comfortable  rest  in  the  natural  way." 

A  congressional  committee  which  visited  the  camp 
reported  that  many  lives  were  sacrificed  for  want  of 
straw  or  other  materials  to  raise  the  men  when  they 


12  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

slept  from  the  cold  and  wet  earth.  The  horses  died 
of  starvation,  and  the  men  themselves  often  had  to  do 
the  work  of  beasts  of  burden,  with  improvised  hand- 
carts or  carrying  heavy  loads  on  their  backs.  The 
dilapidated  soldiery  were  as  badly  off  with  regard  to 
firearms  as  they  were  in  other  respects.  Some  would 
have  muskets,  while  others  in  the  same  company 
had  carbines,  fowling-pieces,  and  rifles.  These  were 
covered  with  rust,  half  of  them  without  bayonets, 
and  many  from  which  not  a  single  shot  could  be  fired. 
Frequently  the  men  carried  their  powder  in  tin  boxes 
and  cow-horns  instead  of  in  the  regulation  pouches. 

The  condition  of  the  army  was  primarily  due  to  the 
feebleness  of  the  Union  of  States  and  the  lack  of  power 
on  the  part  of  Congress  to  levy  taxes  or  to  enforce  its 
edicts.  The  states  were  jealous  of  each  other,  and 
there  was  fear  that  the  army  would  assume  control  of 
the  country  if  it  was  allowed  too  much  power.  Yet, 
even  so,  the  hardships  of  the  troops  were  not  all  a 
necessity.  Incompetence,  as  usual,  played  its  part  in 
the  commissary  department ;  there  were  supplies  in 
plenty,  it  is  said,  but  they  were  in  the  wrong  place,  and 
often  Washington  could  only  obtain  food  by  foraging 
far  and  wide  through  the  country  round  about.  Many 
of  the  farmers  were  hostile,  and,  to  save  their  grain 
from  seizure,  they  stored  it  away  unthreshed  in  sheaves. 
If  it  was  to  be  confiscated,  the  soldiers  themselves  must 
wield  the  flail. 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  13 

The  millers  were  equally  perverse,  and  in  one  in- 
stance a  lot  of  glass  was  ground  into  the  flour.  An 
investigation  followed,  and  it  was  decided  that  the 
person  guilty  of  this  mischief  was  a  Quaker  Tory  by 
the  name  of  Roberts.  A  detail  of  troops  was  sent  to 
his  mill,  and  they  hanged  him  in  his  orchard. 

The  Valley  Forge  encampment  was  virtually  at 
Philadelphia's  back  door,  and  an  easy  road  along  the 


The  Schuylkill  at  Valley  Forge 

banks  of  the  Schuylkill  led  directly  to  the  city.  Yet 
the  British  army,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  strong, 
stayed  revelling  in  the  town  all  through  the  winter  and 
spring.  The  only  excuse  offered  is  that  no  spy  ever 
got  into  the  American  camp  or,  if  he  did,  he  never 
succeeded  in  returning,  and  the  English  did  not  know 
their  enemies'  weakness.  Perhaps,  too,  they  got  an 


14  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

exaggerated  idea  of  the  wildness  of  the  country  up  the 
Schuylkill  from  the  names  of  some  of  the  river  villages 
that  intervened  between  them  and  the  patriots'  strong- 
hold—  Monayunk  and  Conshohocken,  for  instance. 

In  the  evening  after  my  first  day's  tramping  I  visited 
the  Valley  Forge  post-office.  It  occupied  a  corner  in 
a  genuine  country  store.  The  ceiling  of  this  emporium 
was  low  and  dingy,  the  counters  rude,  and  the  shelves 
were  piled  full  of  a  most  varied  assortment  of  goods. 
Posters  hung  here  and  there  advertising  plug  tobacco 
and  other  wares,  or  announcing  prospective  auctions  of 
the  region.  Of  course  the  stove  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  was  hedged  around  with  men  smoking  and  ab- 
sorbing opinions  and  news  from  one  another.  Their 
clatter  was  going  full  tilt  when  I  came  in,  but  at  once 
subsided  into  mild-voiced  and  occasional  remarks.  I 
sat  down  at  some  remove  from  them  to  write  a  letter, 
and  they  gradually  recovered. 

All  but  one  of  the  men  had  their  hats  on.  The 
exception  was  a  thin,  elderly  man  who  wore  slippers 
and  was  apparently  a  part  of  the  store.  The  others 
addressed  him  as  "  Uncle  Buxton."  He  was  actual 
uncle  to  the  postmaster,  I  believe,  and  adopted  uncle 
to  the  rest  of  the  community.  I  noticed  presently 
that  he  was  speaking  about  a  well  he  was  having  dug, 
and  was  complaining  that  the  diggers  did  "  a  good  bit 
o'  torkin',  but  mighty  little  work." 

"  I  reckon  it's  too  near  the  road,"   commented  the 


Midwinter  in  Valley  Forge  15 

man  at  Uncle  Buxton's  right.  "  Y'  see  every  one 
goin'  along  has  to  stop  'n'  ask  all  about  it  and  tell 
what  they  think  on't." 

"  Henry  Shaw's  sick  again,"  remarked  a  man  in  a 
fur  cap,  who  had  established  himself  conveniently  near 
the  box  full  of  sawdust  that  served  as  a  spittoon. 

"  What's  he  got  this  time  ?  "  some  one  inquired. 

"  They  say  it's  pneumonia." 

"  That  there's  what  they  used  to  call  inflammation  of 
the  lungs,"  Uncle  Buxton  declared. 

"  About  all  the  diseases  hev  changed  names  since  I 
was  a  boy,"  said  the  man  in  the  fur  cap,  shifting  his 
quid. 

"  That's  so,"  assented  Uncle  Buxton.  "  I  was  up 
to  my  niece's  week  afore  last  and  I  was  coughin'  some 
and  she  says,  '  Why,  Uncle  Buxton,  you've  got  the 
grip.' 

"  '  No,  I  ain't ! '  says  I. 

"  '  Yes,  you  have  ! '  says  she. 

"'  No,  I  ain't,'  I  says,  '  I've  got  a  bad  cold,  but  I 
ain't  got  no  grip.  It's  just  a  bad  cold,  same  as  I  had 
when  I  was  a  boy.'  But  if  you  have  a  bad  cold  now, 
people  call  it  the  grip." 

"  And  if  you  hev  the  grip  now,"  said  the  fur-capped 
man,  "  they  think  they  got  to  send  right  off  for  a  medi- 
cal doctor.  Why,  when  I  was  a  boy,  my  mother  used 
to  doctor  us — never  thought  of  runnin'  to  a  profes- 
sional for  every  little  thing.  My  mother  used  to 


1 6  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

always  every  year  pick  St.  John's-wort  and  life-ever- 
lastin',  horse-mint,  penny-r'y'l  'n'  such  things  in  the 
pastures,  and  we  had  sage  'n'  horehound  growin'  in  the 
garden." 

"  Any  one  that  understands  the  herbs  knows  more 
than  the  doctors  —  that's  my  idee,"  said  a  man  who 
was  addressed  by  his  companions  as  Jerry. 

"  Yes,  and  you  c'n  often  cure  yourself  a  good  many 
times,"  affirmed  Uncle  Buxton,  "  if  you  only  have  a 
min'  to.  Gorry !  I  know  I  used  to  have  the  sore 
throat  —  had  it  all  the  time  —  and  I  was  a  great  coffee 
drinker  them  days  —  drank  it  every  meal,  'n'  I  thought 
I'd  stop.  So  I  did,  'n'  my  sore  throat  got  well,  'n'  a 
while  after  mother  said  to  me, '  Albert,  won't  you  have 
a  cup  o'  coffee  ?  I  got  some  all  made  up  fresh  ' ;  'n'  I 
said  I  didn't  care  if  I  did  ;  'n'  the  next  mornin'  I  had  my 
sore  throat  again  ;  'n'  then  I  decided  if 'twas  a  question 
between  sore  throat  and  coffee  I'd  give  up  the  coffee. 
So  I  give  it  up,  'n'  that  was  thirty  years  ago,  'n'  I  ain't 
drank  a  cup  of  coffee  since." 

"I  make  my  own  spring  medicine,"  said  Jerry  — 
"  costs  me  just  ten  cents.  I  buy  that  much  worth  o' 
cream  o'  tartar  and  stir  up  a  spoonful  with  a  little  sugar 
in  a  tumbler  o'  water  every  mornin'  before  breakfast. 
It  makes  a  good  drink  —  about  like  soda-water." 

"  I  got  a  good  receipt  for  a  cough,"  Uncle  Buxton 
said,  "  of  the  woman  in  at  the  bakery  down  at  Con- 
shohocken.  She's  given  that  receipt  to  lots  o'  folks, 


Midwinter  in   Valley   Forge  17 

and  I'd  heard  of  it  before  I  went  down  there.  I  had 
a  very  bad  cough  and  people  here  said  I  was  consump- 
tive. My  brother  was  always  at  me  to  go  to  a  doctor, 
but  I  said  I  didn't  want  no  doctor,  and  one  day  I  was 
in  Conshohocken  and  I  went  into  the  bakery  and  got 
that  receipt.  It  was  half  a  pint  o'  white  wine  vinegar, 
half  a  pound  o'  rock  candy,  and  two  fresh-laid  eggs. 
You  stewed  'em  up  together  into  a  kind  of  syrup,  thick 
like  jelly.  Well,  I  took  half  the  quantity  o'  vinegar 
and  rock  candy  and  one  fresh-laid  egg  and  made  a  jelly, 
and  gin  I  had  used  that  I  was  better,  and  before  that  I 
was  gettin'  worse  all  the  time  ;  and  then  I  fixed  up  the 
rest,  and  that  cured  me." 

"  You  couldn't  'a'  got  cured  less'n  twenty-five 
dollars  if  you'd  gone  to  a  medical  doctor,"  said  Jerry. 

"  Well,  I  don't  begrudge  the  doctor  his  money  if  he 
cures,"  remarked  the  man  in  the  fur  cap,  "  but  if  he 
don't  cure,  it  comes  kind  o'  tough." 

When  I  rose  to  go  I  glanced  at  the  auction  posters 
once  more.  It  occurred  to  me  I  might  attend  one  of 
the  sales  if  the  distance  was  not  too  great.  "  Where  is 
this  Wednesday  auction  to  be  ?  "  I  asked. 

"That's  the  one  at  Howltown,  ain't  it?"  queried 
some  one  in  the  group  about  the  stove. 

"  No,"  put  in  Uncle  Buxton  ;  "that's  four  miles  from 
here,  over  at  Di'mond  Rock." 

"  Diamond  Rock,"  I  repeated,  "  how  does  it  get 
that  name  ?  " 


UOS  AJ^GEliES,  CALi, 


1 8  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

"Why,  this  'ere  rock's  full  o'  little  di'monds," 
responded  Uncle  Buxton  —  "crystals,  you  know. 
There's  small  holes  all  over  the  rock,  and  you  can  look 
in  and  see  the  di'monds  shinin'  there,  plenty  of  'em. 
Folks  go  with  hammers  and  knock  'em  out,  so  the 
rock  is  pretty  well  chipped  now." 

"  Will  any  of  these  mills  at  Valley  Forge  ever  be 
used  again  ?"  I  inquired,  changing  the  subject. 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed,"  was  Uncle  Buxton's  reply. 
"  They  ain't  improvin'  none.  That  one  by  the  depot 
is  the  worst.  It's  all  goin'  to  wrack,  and  the  top  story's 
fell  off;  but  it's  nothing  like  as  old  as  the  other  two 
mills.  The  upper  mill  on  the  crick  was  a  cotton  and 
woollen  mill  and  has  got  a  good  water-power  and  a 
good  dam.  The  old  dam  washed  out  in  1865.  There 
was  a  cloudburst  up  the  valley,  and  the  water  riz  way 
over  the  banks,  roarin'  an'  rushin'  along  full  of  deb-ris 
and  carrying  away  all  the  bridges,  and  dams,  and  every- 
thing. Since  the  mills  all  closed,  Valley  Forge's  been 
kind  o'  a  run-down  place ;  and  then,  last  year,  there 
was  a  minister  made  us  some  more  trouble." 

"  How  was  that  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  Why,  we  was  goin'  to  have  a  Baptist  church  built. 
The  minister  collected  the  money,  and  then  he  spent  it 
himself.  He  was  found  out  and  had  to  leave.  Now 
he's  up  at  Perkiomen  runnin'  the  streets  —  that's  about 
all  he's  doin'  's  far's  I  c'n  find  out." 

"  Do    you    think,"    said     I,    "  that    Washington's 


A  VALLEY  FORCE  FOOTPATH 

The  ruinous  buildings  are  the  former  homes  of"  the  operatives  who  worked  in  the 
deserted  village  mills 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  19 

soldiers  had  as  hard  a  time  here  as  we  read  they 
did  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Uncle  Buxton,  decidedly,  "  I  do. 
There's  a  colored  woman  lives  in  Philadelphia,  and 
she's  a  hundred  and  thirty  years  old,  and  when  she  was 
a  girl  she  was  owned  out  near  here  by  a  family  named 
Huston,  and  the  soldiers  was  so  bad  off  Mr.  Huston 
used  to  go  round  gathering  up  stuff  to  give  'em;  and 
the  colored  woman  —  she  was  a  little  girl  then — went 
up  to  the  camp  with  him  sometimes,  and  she  says  the 
soldiers'  shoes  was  all  worn  out,  and  she  could  track 
'em  around  on  the  snow  by  the  blood  from  their  feet. 
My  grandfather  was  with  the  Vermont  troops,  and  I've 
heard  him  tell,  too,  how  things  was,  many  a  time.  He 
said  one  cold  spell  Washington  appinted  a  dress  parade, 
and  he  asked  the  soldiers  to  all  put  on  their  best 
clothes  and  look  just  the  finest  they  could.  They  did 
it,  and  then  he  had  all  them  picked  out  that  was  com- 
fortable dressed  and  set  'em  to  work  choppin'  wood. 
The  rest  he  had  stay  in  their  huts  to  keep  warm.  If 
people  was  to  go  through  the  hardships  o'  that  winter 
now,  they'd  all  die.  They  ain't  got  the  spunk  they  had 
then  —  nowhere  near  !  " 

On  one  other  point  I  asked  enlightenment.  I  had 
failed  to  find  what  was  known  as  the  Washington 
spring,  though  I  had  searched  for  it  again  and  again. 

"  It's  close  by  the  place  where  the  old  forge  stood," 
explained  Uncle  Buxton,  "  in  a  bar'l  right  by  the  side 
o'  the  road,"  and  he  gave  minute  directions. 


2O  New  Kngland  and  its  Neighbors 

I  renewed  my  search  the  next  day,  and  was  rewarded 
by  finding  a  few  rotten  staves  around  a  hole  in  the 
gutter,  full  of  leaves  and  rubbish,  and  not  a  drop  of 
water.  The  natives,  to  whom  I  afterward  mentioned 
these  conditions,  apologized  for  the  spring  by  saying 
they  had  never  known  it  to  go  dry  before.  Its  claim 
to  be  the  "  Washington  "  spring  does  not  seem  to  be 
very  valid.  The  same  claim  is  made  for  nearly  all  the 
springs  in  the  Valley,  including  two  or  three  the  rail- 
road has  wiped  out.  But  surely  Washington  would 
not  have  depended  on  this  spring  a  half-mile  distant 
from  headquarters  when  there  were  plenty  nearer. 

The  old  Potts  house,  in  which  Washington  made 
his  home,  is  a  square,  good-sized  stone  building,  two 
and  a  half  stories  high.  A  public  association  has  it  in 
charge,  and  preserves  it  as  nearly  as  may  be  in  its 
Revolutionary  aspect.  Its  most  pleasing  outward 
feature  is  the  great  front  door,  divided  horizontally  in 
halves,  after  the  manner  common  in  colonial  days,  and 
shadowed  by  a  picturesque  porch  roof  that  pokes  out 
from  the  wall  above.  The  windows  are  guarded  by 
solid  wooden  shutters,  and  the  glass  in  their  tiny  panes 
is  only  semi-transparent,  and  distorts  with  its  twists  and 
curls  whatever  is  seen  through  it. 

o 

The  rooms  within  have  their  ancient  open  fireplaces 
and  white,  wooden  wainscoting,  and  contain  a  variety 
of  old-time  relics,  yet  there  is  no  touch  of  life,  and  the 
house  has  the  barren  look  of  a  museum.  This  is  the 


Midwinter  in  Valley    Forge 


The  Entrance  to  the  Headquarters  Mansion 

more  pronounced  because  of  certain  barriers  it  has  been 
necessary  to  put  up  to  restrain  the  vandalism  of  the 
sightseers.  Kven  the  great  kitchen  fireplace  has  to  be 
protected.  It  was  kept  open  until  it  had  gradually 


22  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

lost  every  piece  of  ironware  it  contained,  and  then, 
when  a  new  set  of  old  furnishings  was  presented,  a 
wire  screen  was  run  across  the  front. 

The  visitors  treat  the  place  as  their  prey  to  a  sur- 
prising degree.  Frequently  they  attempt  to  avoid 
paying  the  ten-cent  admission  fee.  At  the  rear  are 
spacious  grounds  of  lawn  and  shade  trees,  the  whole 
surrounded  by  a  weatherworn  picket  fence.  Over  this 
fence  comes  many  a  pilgrim,  but  sometimes  these  inter- 
lopers get  their  just  deserts,  as,  for  example,  a  party  of 
eight  young  women  who  scaled  the  palings  one  day 
when  they  thought  the  keeper  was  at  dinner.  He 
suddenly  confronted  them,  much  to  their  consternation, 
and  in  spite  of  their  pleadings,  made  them  all  clamber 
over  the  fence  again  and  come  around  to  the  gate. 

One  very  interesting  portion  of  the  house  is  a  low 
log  annex  which  reproduces  a  like  structure  erected  by 
Washington  fora  dining-room.  In  its  floor  is  a  trap- 
door, and  a  steep  flight  of  steps  leads  down  to  an 
arched  passage  and  room  underground.  The  house 
was  built  when  the  Indians  were  still  feared,  and  this 
retreat  was  to  serve  as  a  refuge  in  case  the  house- 
dwellers  were  hard  pressed.  A  tunnel  originally  gave 
connection  with  the  near  river,  whence  escape  could  be 
made  by  boat. 

Many  schemes  are  broached  for  improving  Valley 
Forge  as  a  Revolutionary  shrine,  some  good,  but  others 
of  doubtful  wisdom.  The  danger  is  of  making  it  a 


Midwinter  in  Valley   Forge  23 

great  show  place  ;  for,  laid  out  as  a  park  and  adorned 
with  ostentatious  monuments,  its  tinge  of  wildness 

'  O 

would  be  destroyed,  and  it  would  wholly  lose  its  charm 
and  all  flavor  of  the  old  war  days  when  it  was  a  refuge 
for  the  feeble  and  tattered  Continental  army. 


The  House  which  was  Washington's  Headquarters 


II 


WHEN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS    ARE    WHITE 


THE  southern 
half  of  New 
England  was 
bare  and  brown ;  but 
as  I  went  northward  I 
began  to  see  remnants 
of  drifts,  arid  there 
were  upper  hillslopes 
with  a  northern  ex- 
posure that  were  quite 
white.  By  the  time 
I  reached  the  moun- 
tains snow  was  omni- 
present, the  roads  were 
deep-buried,  and  trav- 
elling was  done  on 

A  Woodland  Teamster  runners.       My     train 

carried  me  many  miles  up  the  tortuous  valleys,  and 
the  aspect  of  the  region  became  less  and  less  inviting 
the  longer  the  journey  continued.  The  little  farms 

24 


When  the  White  Mountains  are  White        25 

appeared  unthrifty,  and  the  frequent,  great  vacant 
hotels  only  accented  the  desolation. 

I  stopped  at  a  village  I  will  call  Maple  Glen.  Like 
most  of  the  hamlets  of  the  district  it  consisted  of  a 
small  group  of  houses  around  the  railway  station,  with 
scattered  farmhouses  on  the  roads  leading  away  from 
this  nucleus.  It  looked  lost  or  misplaced  in  the  white 
world  of  frost  with  which  it  was  enveloped.  One 
doubted  if  it  would  thaw  out  in  all  summer.  Many  of 
the  dwellings  were  meagre  little  affairs  with  a  few 
pinched  sheds  about  them.  These  were  the  homes 
of  the  unenergetic  or  shiftless.  Their  dreariness  was 
not  due  to  the  poverty  of  the  region  and  its  remote- 
ness from  markets,  for  signs  were  not  lacking  that 
some  degree  of  prosperity  was  within  the  reach  of 
all.  A  portion  of  the  inhabitants  grasped  it,  as  was 
evidenced  by  buildings  repaired  and  modernized  and 
made  pleasing  to  the  owner's  eyes  by  the  application 
of  paint  in  the  striking  colors  that  are  at  present  fash- 
ionable. The  hotels  furnish  excellent  markets  during 
the  summer  for  eggs,  poultry,  milk,  and  early  vege- 
tables, and  considerable  work  is  to  be  had  at  the 
sawmills  which  abound  along  all  the  streams,  while  in 
winter  good  wages  can  be  earned  chopping  and  teaming 
on  the  mountains. 

I  looked  about  the  village  and  then  went  into  the 
station  to  warm  up  by  the  fire.  Several  men  were 
lounging  about  there,  and  two  or  three  others  entered 


26  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

soon  afterward.  One  of  the  latter  was  an  old-fashioned 
Yankee.  He  shook  hands  cordially  with  an  elderly 
man  who  seemed  to  be  a  particular  friend,  and  said, 
"  Haow  dew  yeow  pan  aout  tewday  ?  " 

His  pronunciation  was  not  a  fair  sample,  however,  of 
the  conversation  I  heard  in  the  mountains.  On  the 
whole  the  people  used  surprisingly  good  English,  and 
the  nasal  twang  supposed  to  be  characteristic  of  rustic 
New  Englanders  was  seldom  very  marked. 

In  a  corner  of  the  station  waiting-room  stood  a  crate 
of  oranges.  It  had  come  by  express  for  the  local  store- 
keeper. One  of  the  men  in  the  room  presently  called 
attention  to  it  and  told  how  fond  he  was  of  oranges 
and  named  just  the  length  of  time  it  would  take  him 
to  devour  a  dozen  of  them.  Another  man  said  there 
wasn't  enough  taste  to  oranges  to  suit  him,  but  he  could 
eat  lemons  right  down.  This  led  a  third  man  to  relate 
that  while  he  didn't  have  any  great  hankering  for  either 
oranges  or  lemons,  he  could  despatch  sixteen  bananas 
without  stopping  to  breathe.  Then  a  fourth  epicure 
declared  nothing  suited  him  as  well  as  peanuts.  "  I 
golly  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  c'n  walk  from  here  to  Lit- 
tleton, and  that's  ten  miles,  and  eat  peanuts  all  the 
way." 

What  other  gastronomic  revelations  might  have  been 
made  I  cannot  say,  for  just  then  we  were  all  attracted  to 
the  windows  by  a  commotion  outside.  Two  drunken 
fellows  were  walking  along  the  road,  jarring  against  each 


A  LOAD  OF  LOGS  ON  A  FOREST  ROADWAY 


When  the   White   Mountains  are  White        27 

other  and  gesticulating  and  shouting.  The  older  of  the 
two,  who  looked  to  be  about  twenty-five,  was  Joe  But- 
ton, so  the  men  in  the  station  said,  and  added  that  he 
had  married,  some  months  before,  Eliza  Hicks,  a  girl 
of  thirteen  ;  yet  the  match  was  on  the  whole  perhaps 
a  good  thing  for  her,  it  was  argued,  as  her  parents  were 
dead  and  there  was  no  one  to  take  care  of  her.  The 
couple  were  reported  to  get  along  well  together  in  spite 
of  her  youth  and  his  drunkenness.  "  But  my  daughter 
used  to  go  to  school  with  her,"  commented  the  man 
standing  next  me,  "  and  she  says  Eliza  puts  on  terrible 
airs  over  her  and  the  other  girls  now,  because  she's 
married  and  they  ain't.  The  girls  pretend  not  to  care, 
but  I  guess  they  feel  it  some." 

Evening  was  approaching  and  I  inquired  where  I 
could  get  lodging  for  the  night.  My  only  chance,  I 
was  told,  was  at  a  boarding-house  a  little  way  up  the 
track.  This  boarding-house  proved  to  be  a  small  yel- 
low dwelling  neighboring  a  sawmill.  It  was  kept  by  a 
stout,  shrewd-looking  Frenchwoman.  She  had  only  two 
or  three  boarders  just  then,  for  the  mill  was  not  running, 
and  I  was  welcome  to  stay  if  I  chose.  The  house  was 
very  plainly  and  rudely  furnished,  but  was  clean  and 
orderly.  I  sat  down  in  the  kitchen.  In  a  chair  near 
me  was  a  large  framed  portrait  that  had  apparently  just 
been  unwrapped.  The  woman  said  it  was  a  crayon 
enlargement  of  her  mother,  and  she  thought  it  was  very 
good,  but  she  would  never  get  another.  "It  is  too 


28  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

much  troubles.  The  man  he  comes  here  long  time 
ago  and  he  say  he  make  portrait  my  mother  free  if  I 
buy  the  frame  —  the  portrait,  it  cost  nothings.  I  say 
I  will  take  the  portrait  for  nothings  and  never  mind 
the  frame,  but  he  say  he  not  do  business  that  way.  So 
I  pick  a  frame  and  he  say  he  want  cash.  I  say  how  I 
know  you  ever  be  here  another  time.  I  pay  you  when 
you  the  picture  brings.  But  he  tell  it  large  expense  for 
the  very  fine  work  he  do  and  he  must  have  moneys. 
I  say  then  I  will  pay  him  two  dollars  and  no  more, 
and  he  say  very  well.  So  I  have  only  but  a  ten-dollar 
bill  and  I  ask  him  can  he  change  it  and  he  say  he  can. 
But  when  he  get  it  he  take  out  the  full  price  and  I 
cannot  make  him  do  different.  He  say  it  is  the  price 
only  of  the  frame  anyway  and  a  great  bargains.  I  pay 
four  dollars  eighty-five  for  that  frame,  but  I  have  see 
just  as  big  a  frame  at  Lancaster  in  a  store  for  dollar 
twenty-nine,  and  my  sister's  husband  he  get  portrait 
like  this  made  large  thrown  in  with  a  suit  clothes.  It 
not  so  great  bargain,  I  think. 

"  Well,  that  agent  man,  he  get  my  money  and  it  be 
long  time  until  I  think  I  never  see  him  no  more,  but 
to-day  he  come,  and  he  say  they  put  some  extra  works 
on  the  picture  and  express,  so  I  have  to  pay  one  ninety 
more.  But  I  say  I  never  order  no  extras,  and  they 
bring  themselves  the  picture,  so  there  be  no  express, 
and  I  have  pay  all  I  will.  So  we  have  some  talks,  and 
he  goes  away.  Oh,  we  have  many  pedlers  comin'  along 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White        29 

here  all  the  times,  and  tramps  too.  Some  of  the  tramps 
make  me  afraid.  I  always  give  them  to  eat;  but  if 
they  looks  bad  or  like  they  was  drunk,  I  keeps  shut 
the  door  and  put  somethings  in  paper,  and  opens  the 
door  only  enough  to  hand  it  out.  One  Sunday,  a 
big  fat  tramp  came.  All  the  mans  was  in  the  house 
-  my  boarders  —  fifteen  mans  —  and  I  was  not 
scare  that  time.  It  was  mos'  dinner,  and  I  say,  'You 
have  to  wait.  If  there  anythings  left  I  give  you,  but 
I  got  only  jus'  'bout  'nough  to  fill  my  boarders.'  He 
say  he  in  considerable  hurry,  so  he  go  on  some  other 
house. 

"  I  was  most  scare  once  that  I  was  cleaning  the  but- 
tery and  a  tramp  he  came  right  into  the  buttery  and 
say,  f  I  want  some  kind  o'  grub.' 

"  And  I  say,  '  Why  you  not  knock  ?' 

"  And  he  say  he  see  nothing  of  nobody  and  the  door 
open,  so  he  walk  in.  I  been  churning  and  I  have  six 
poun'  butter  and  have  just  put  it  on  the  shelf,  and  he 
say  he  guess  he  have  a  little  o'  that  butter ;  and  I  take 
a  knife  to  cut,  and  he  say  he  don't  min'  to  have  a 
whole  cake  —  two  poun'.  Then  he  say  he  will  have 
some  tea  and  some  sugar,  and  he  take  two  breads  and 
other  things  ;  he  look  awful  bad,  and  I  so  much  tright 
I  do  all  he  say  ;  and  he  see  a  dinner  pail  all  new  and 
shiny,  and  he  say,  c  I  take  that,  too;  that  be  kind  o' 
handy  for  me.'  But  I  tell  him  that  belong  to  my 
boarder  —  'I  can't  give  you  that';  and  he  say  he  'bliged 


jo  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

to  have  it  and  he  settle  with  the  boarder  when  he 
come  aroun'  nex'.  But  I  guess  that  be  not  very  soon, 
and  I  not  want  to  see  him  anyway ;  he  too  terrible 
huggly." 

After  supper  when  my  landlady  had  finished  doing 
the  dishes  and  had  sat  down  to  sew,  we  heard  a  rat  in 
the  walls.  That  reminded  her  of  a  chopper  who 
several  years  ago  came  to  the  house,  to  board  a  few 
days  after  he  got  through  the  winter  in  the  woods, 
"  and  he  say  he  can  make  the  rats  go  just  where  he 
please  —  send  them  any  place  he  want ;  and  I  say, 
'You  a  nice  man  —  doin'  such  things!' 

"  But  he  say,  l  That's  all  right.  It  come  very  handy 
knowing  to  do  that  sometimes':  and  I  tell  him  I  don't 

o  7 

think  much  of  man  sending  rats  round.  Well,  he  been 
long  time  in  camp,  and  his  clothes  much  dirty,  and  he 
want  me  to  wash  for  him,  and  I  say,  '  No,  you  hire 
some  other  people  what  does  washing  here.'  But  he 
was  a  Frenchman  and  didn't  want  to  spend  nothings  — 
these  French,  they  come  from  Canada,  you  know,  and 
they  brings  everything  they  will  need  and  don't  want 
to  spen'  one  cent.  They  want  to  take  they  money  all 
back  to  Canada.  Then  he  ask  will  I  let  him  do  the 
wash,  and  so  I  did. 

"  When  he  ready  to  go  home  an'  we  settle,  he  don't 
want  pay  fifty  cent  a  day,  and  he  say,  '  You  wouldn't 
charge  so  much  to  a  poor  workingman,'  and  I  say,  '  I 
would.  You  heat  enough  for  two  mans  together,  and 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White        31 

I  got  have  the  price  what  I  always  have.'  He  want  to 
pay  twenty-five  cents,  but  I  won't  take  only  my  reg'lar 
price. 

"  So  he  went  away,  and  that  same  day  a  lot  of  railway 
mens  come,  and  the  house  was  full  up ;  and  in  the  night 
we  could  not  none  of  us  sleep,  the  rats  made  so  much 
noise.  It  was  like  any  one  move  a  trunk  and  throw  a 
table  on  the  floor  —  make  jus'  as  much  noise  as  that  — 
and  no  one  believe  that  was  rats.  The  boarders,  they 
want  know  the  next  morning  if  we  hear  that  terrible 
noise  —  that  scratch  and  bang — and  they  ask  if  we 
have  ghosts.  We  never  hear  any  rats  before  and  we 
think  that  Frenchman,  he  go  away  mad  and  he  mus' 
make  the  rats  of  all  the  peoples  round  here  come 
down  our  place.  We  didn't  have  no  cat.  Every  cat 
we  use  to  have  would  get  fits,  and  some  day  we  find 
it  turnin'  round  and  grab  on  the  wall  and  fall  on  the 
floor;  and  we  think  the  cat  might  jump  up  on  the 
cradle  and  scratch  the  baby,  and  we  get  frightened 
when  the  cat  have  fits,  and  we  kill  all  the  time.  One 
of  the  boarder,  he  say  he  heard  if  you  steal  a  cat,  it 
keep  well  and  never  have  that  sickness  same  what  all 
the  before  cats  had.  So  I  say,  '  If  you  to  steal  a  cat 
have  a  chance,  I  wish  you  to  goodness  would.' 

"He  kind  of  keep  lookout  for  cats  that  day  and  he 
found  one  on  the  sidewalk  'bout  two  mile  from  here; 
and  the  boarders  say  we  fed  those  other  cats  too  much 
meat,  so  we  didn't  any  more,  and  we  had  that  cat  eight 


32  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

or  nine  years  and  we  got  it  yet.  Soon  as  we  got  it 
that  cat  begun  catch  rats.  It  catch  mos'  as  fifteen  a 
day  and  it  wouldn't  never  eat  that  rats  once.  It  catch 
them  all  night  and  it  not  through  catching  the  next 
morning,  but  it  so  tired  then  it  would  not  kill,  but 
bring  them  to  the  kitchen  and  leave  them  run  round, 
and  we  have  to  take  the  broom.  That  make  the 
boarders  laugh. 

"The  next  fall  that  Frenchman  come  again.  It 
mos'  night,  and  he  go  to  the  barn,  but  I  know  him  as 
he  pass  the  window.  My  husband  he  milking  and  he 
not  in  the  dark  remember  the  man.  If  he  have  he 
take  a  stick  and  break  his  neck.  The  man  he  ask  if 
he  can  get  board,  and  my  husband  he  say,  *  My  wife 
manage  all  that.'  So  the  man  come  and  ask  me.  He 
have  a  bag  on  his  back  and  it  been  rain  hard  and  he 
all  wet.  He  say  he  can't  go  any  farther;  and  I  say, 
'  You  the  man  what  send  the  rats  any  place  you  want 
to.  We  got  lots  of  rats  that  night  you  left.  I  guess 
you  got  you  bag  full  of  rats  again.  No,  I  not  keep 
you.' 

"He  never  sayed  anythings,  but  jus'  walk  away 
down  the  road." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  tale  my  landlady  brought 
from  the  cellar  some  potatoes  to  pare  for  breakfast, 
and  shortly  her  lodgers,  who  had  been  spending  the 
evening  at  the  village  store,  came  in,  and  then  it  was 
bedtime  for  the  household. 


WORK  AT  A  LOGGING  CAMP  LANDING 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White        33 

After  an  early  meal  the  next  morning  1  returned  to 
the  station,  where  I  found  a  log  train  preparing  to 
make  its  daily  journey  back  on  a  little  branch  road 
into  the  mountains.  I  decided  to  go  with  it  and 
climbed  into  the  rude  caboose  at  its  rear.  There  were 
about  half  a  dozen  other  passengers.  They  visited  and 
joked  and  added  vigor  and  spice  to  their  conversation 
by  a  good  deal  of  casual  swearing  and  some  decidedly 
less  excusable  foulness.  Our  journey  was  up  a  wind- 
ing valley,  all  the  way  through  the  interminable  and 
silent  woods.  Considerable  snow  had  fallen  during 
the  night,  but  it  lay  light  and  undrifted  and  did  not 
materially  impede  our  progress,  though  the  steepness 
of  the  grade  made  the  engine  pant  heavily.  The 
flakes  were  still  flying,  and  I  could  only  see  a  little 
strip  of  whitened  woodland  on  either  side,  and  nothing 
at  all  of  the  mountains  between  which  we  were  passing. 

I  went  as  far  as  the  train  went,  to  the  most  remote 
of  the  logging  camps  —  that  of  Jacques  Freneau  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  woods.  The  camp  was  in  a 
clearing  beside  the  tracks.  It  consisted  of  a  group  of 
several  buildings  and  an  eighth  of  a  mile  of  "  landing" 
to  which  the  logs  were  drawn  fiom  the  forest,  and 
from  which  they  were  rolled  on  to  the  platform  cars. 
With  the  exception  of  one  or  two  little  shanties  of 
boards  the  camp  buildings  were  of  logs  made  weather- 
proof by  having  their  cracks  chinked  with  moss. 
Their  rude  construction  and  the  lonely  winter  forest 


34  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

that  formed  their  background  made  them  seem  exceed- 
ingly primitive  and  out-of-the-world. 

Freneau's  choppers  numbered  about  fifty.  They 
were  not  making  a  clean  sweep  of  the  forest,  but  only 
taking  out  the  spruces  and  pines,  so  that  they  left 
woodland  behind,  though  a  good  deal  thinned  and 
devastated.  To  see  the  wilderness  changed  to  the 
desert  I  would  have  to  go  up  another  valley  where 
the  "  king  contractor  "  of  the  mountains  was  at  work. 
He  employed  seven  hundred  laborers  and  had  built 
for  them  a  whole  village  of  houses  laid  out  regularly 
in  streets.  The  mountains  when  he  finished  were 
shorn  of  everything  but  brush,  and  invited  the  farther 
despoiling  of  fire  and  storm,  so  that  it  seemed  doubtful 
if  the  forest  glory  of  which  the  heights  had  been  robbed 
could  ever  return. 

A  well-worn  road  led  back  from  Freneau's  camp 
into  the  woods,  and  I  followed  it  until  I  found  the 
choppers.  They  were  working  in  genuine  forest  that 
looked  like  the  undisturbed  handiwork  of  nature,  and 
the  trees  grew  crowded  and  stalwart.  In  the  past  these 
trees,  when  they  waxed  old,  had  added  their  forms  to 
the  ancestral  mould  among  the  rocks  where  they  had 
stood.  But  now  blows  of  axes  and  the  grating  of 
sharp-toothed  saws  were  heard  among  them  ;  and  those 
tiny  creatures  —  those  destroying  mites  known  as  men 
-were  bringing  them  down  untimely  in  youth  and 
sturdy  prime  and  dragging  them  away. 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White 


35 


The  men  sawed  off  the  larger  trees,  but  used  their 
axes  for  the  lesser  ones.  They  usually  chopped  two 
to  a  tree,  from  opposite  sides,  and  I  noticed  they  could 
work  equally  well  right  or  left  handed.  When  a  tree 
is  about  to  fall, 
the  choppers  at  its 
base  shout  to  warn 
such  of  their  com- 
panions as  are  near. 
At  first  the  tree 
sways  from  the  up- 
right very  gently, 
and  a  little  snow 
sifts  down  from  its 
branches.  Then 
its  motion  becomes 
more  and  more 
rapid  until  it  crashes 
to  earth.  The  im- 
pact causes  a  great 
cloud  of  powdered 
snow  to  burst  up 
like  smoke  into 
the  air.  This  slowly  drifts  away,  and  by  the  time  it 
dissipates,  the  men  are  working  along  the  prostrate 
tree  trunk,  cutting  off  the  branches. 

The  woodsmen  are   portioned  into  crews  of  four  — 
two  choppers,  a  driver,  and  a  sled-tender.      It  is  the 


The  Choppers 


36  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

duty  of  the  last-named  to  help  the  driver  load,  and 
while  the  team  is  making  a  trip  he  is  busy  rolling  logs 
to  the  road  ready  for  his  companion's  return.  The 
driver  has  a  single  broad  sled  truck.  To  this  the  logs 
are  chained,  allowing  the  rear  ends  to  drag.  These 
ends  furrow  very  smooth  and  hard  tracks,  which  you 
have  to  tread  most  gingerly  or  your  feet  fly  from  under 
you  with  astonishing  suddenness.  The  loads  go  skim- 
ming along  the  decline  at  a  trot,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
are  at  the  landing,  where  are  men  who  unchain  the  logs 
and  load  them  on  the  cars. 

A  good  deal  of  rivalry  exists  between  the  different 
crews,  and  they  are  always  eager  to  compare  records 
when  these  are  made  up  in  the  evening.  They  work 
with  especial  ardor  on  Saturdays,  for  it  is  quite  an 
honor  to  come  out  ahead  in  the  week's  total.  The 
boss  does  all  he  can  to  cherish  this  rivalry,  and  some- 
times offers  prizes  —  perhaps  two  plugs  of  tobacco  to 
the  crew  which  accomplishes  most  in  a  day,  and  one 
plug  to  each  of  the  three  crews  which  come  next. 

The  logs  were  marked  and  a  record  of  them  kept  by 
two  sealers.  The  sealers  were  the  aristocracy  of  the 
camp,  and  had  a  separate  cabin  of  their  own.  In  it, 
besides  the  inevitable  box  stove  and  a  big  wood-box, 
each  man  had  a  board  desk  roughly  nailed  together 
and  fastened  to  the  wall,  and  an  equally  rude  bed. 
Not  much  factory-made  furniture  is  imported  into  the 
camps.  The  woodsmen  get  along  with  what  they  can 


When   the  White   Mountains  are  White        37 

construct  themselves.  Instead  of  chairs  they  use 
benches,  though  the  sealers  had  been  inventive  enough 
to  supply  a  rocking-chair  for  their  cabin.  The  main 


A   Woodsman's  Rocking-chair 

substance  of  this  article  was  a  flour  barrel  with  a  por- 
tion of  the  staves  sawed  off  and  inserted  for  a  seat. 
On  the  bottom  were  nailed  a  few  short  lengths  of 
boards  to  form  a  platform,  underneath  which  were  fast- 
ened edgewise  a  couple  of  boards  fashioned  into  rock- 
ers. I  tried  the  chair  and  found  it  more  comfortable 
than  I  would  have  imagined,  though  its  makers  apolo- 
gized for  its  lack  of  upholstering,  and  tor  certain  nails 
that  were  apt  to  restrain  you  when  you  rose. 

The  man  who  was  chiefly  responsible  for  this  chair 
was  a  very  ingenious  sort  of  a  Yankee.      Among  other 


38  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

things  he  had  whittled  out  a  birch  broom,  and  each 
winter  he  was  in  the  habit  of  making  with  his  jack- 
knife  quite  a  number  of  slender  toy  barrels,  about  six 
inches  high,  which  he  filled  with  gum  and  sold  — 
some  of  them  to  workers  in  the  logging  camp  who 
wanted  to  send  away  a  forest  souvenir,  some  of  them 
to  chance  visitors.  The  barrels  were  very  neatly  done 
in  white  poplar  wood,  and  were  marvels  of  patience. 

Camp  visitors  were  usually  either  pedlers  or  people 
from  the  mountain  villages  who  came  on  some  sort  of 
business.  Possibly  on  a  Sunday  a  priest  or  a  Protes- 
tant home  missionary  might  find  his  way  to  the  camp  and 
hold  service,  but  none  had  been  to  Freneau's  this  winter, 
and  the  only  manifestation  of  religion  was  the  regular  ap- 
pearance of  salt  codfish  on  Fridays.  One  of  the  most 
recent  of  the  pedlers  was  a  man  who  took  orders  for 
tailor-made  suits.  His  prices  ranged  from  thirteen  to 
twenty-two  dollars,  and  he  did  very  well ;  but  a  fellow 
with  watches  and  jewellery  was  much  more  successful. 
In  a  single  night  he  sold  one  hundred  and  seventy-five 
dollars'  worth.  The  pedlers  received  payment  in  the 
form  of  orders  on  the  boss,  who  deducted  ten  per  cent 
for  his  share  in  the  transaction. 

Nearly  all  the  men  in  Freneau's  camp  were  French 
from  Canada.  They  cleared  from  fifty  to  one  hundred 
dollars  by  their  winter's  work  on  wages  varying  from 
seventeen  to  thirty  dollars  a  month,  the  sum  depend- 
ing on  the  individual's  ability  and  the  work  he  did. 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White        39 

The  men  were  all  young,  and  they  seldom  came  more 
than  two  or  three  seasons.  The  probability  was  they 
were  struggling  to  pay  for  some  little  farm  that  cost 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  when  this  was 
accomplished  they  stayed  at  home  to  take  care  of  their 
property.  There  was  rarely  any  loitering  on  the  part 
of  these  Frenchmen  after  the  labor  of  the  four  white 
months  in  the  forest  solitude  was  done.  They  started 
promptly  northward  with  their  earnings  almost  intact; 
but  the  Irish  and  Scotch  from  Nova  Scotia,  who  made 
up  a  considerable  fraction  of  the  mountain  choppers, 
were  apt  to  celebrate  their  release  and  affluence  by  a 
grand  spree. 

In  Freneau's  stout  log  barn  were  twenty-six  horses. 
He  had  no  oxen.  Indeed,  the  latter  are  scarcely  ever 
brought  into  the  mountains  now.  Some  of  the  valley 
farmers  have  them  and  get  out  lumber  from  the  wood- 
land borders  with  them  ;  but  twenty  years  ago  they 
were  in  common  use  everywhere,  both  in  the  forest  and 
out.  It  was  thought  then  that  oxen  could  do  rougher 
work  than  horses.  The  present  view  is  that  horses  can 
be  put  in  places  where  oxen  cannot,  and  their  superior 
intelligence  and  quickness  make  them  accomplish 
decidedly  more.  The  only  oxen  I  learned  of  in  the 
woods  were  two  yoke  in  a  camp  a  mile  below.  Their 
owner  was  an  old-style  farmer  who  was  getting  timber 
from  his  own  land.  He  had  a  tremendous  voice,  and 
on  a  quiet  day  could  be  clearly  heard  by  the  men  at 


4o 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


A  Mountain  Ox-team 

Freneau's,  shouting  to  his  creatures,  "  Gee  off  there  ! 
Whoa,  back  !     Whoa,  hush  !     Whoa,  ho  !  "  etc. 

The  power  of  his  tones  suggested  a  man  hardly  less 
bucolic  than  the  creatures  he  was  directing.  I  con- 
cluded I  would  go  down  to  see  him.  During  the 
winter  he  had  employed  several  choppers,  but  these 
had  now  gone,  and  only  he,  and  his  wife  who  did  the 
camp  housekeeping  in  the  little  log  cabin,  and  their 
son  were  left.  When  I  approached  the  clearing  I  saw 
that  father  and  son  were  engaged  in  loading  a  car,  and 
were  about  to  put  on  a  long  spruce.  This  was  in 
a  pile  three  or  four  rods  up  an  incline  from  the  land- 
ing, and  they  were  considering  whether  it  would  go 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White        41 

where  it  ought  if  they  simply  let  it  roll.  With 
very  little  trouble  they  could  have  set  up  stakes  to 
stop  it  on  the  lower  side  of  the  landing,  but  they 
guessed  it  would  go  all  right,  and  heaved  it  loose. 
Off  it  went,  bumping  along,  and  the  men  watched  it 
with  interest.  One  end  gained  on  the  other,  and  when 
it  struck  the  car  it  only  partially  lodged  on  the  load, 
and  canted  up  with  the  small  end  down  on  the  track. 
The  men  were  inclined  to  blame  each  other  for  this 
outcome,  but  they  soon  fell  to  work  again,  got  their 
yoke  of  oxen  hitched  on  to  the  log,  and  after  con- 
siderable trouble  succeeded  in  properly  adjusting  it. 
Next  they  dragged  a  heavy  beech  out  of  the  snow  on 
the  edge  of  the  woods.  It  was  rather  short  for  the 
landing,  and  they  were  half  minded  to  lay  down  some 
skids  to  make  sure  it  should  not  go  astray.  But  when 
they  talked  this  over  they  guessed  it  wasn't  necessary. 
"  Seems  to  me  it'll  do,"  said  the  old  man;  "only  be 
careful ;  yes,  be  darn  careful  !  "  They  edged  the  log 
along,  and  so  far  as  I  could  judge  they  were  "  darn 
careful,"  and  yet  at  the  last  moment  down  went  one 
end  between  the  car  and  the  landing.  Luckily  the 
other  end  caught  up  above.  Even  so  it  was  a  bad 
predicament,  and  the  men  hitched  on  the  oxen  with 
the  remark  that  if  one  yoke  couldn't  draw  the  log  out 
they  would  bring  their  second  yoke  from  the  barn  and 
see  what  both  together  could  do.  But  a  single  yoke 
sufficed,  though  not  without  a  great  deal  of  exertion  on 


42  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

the  part  of  men  and  beasts,  and  a  melancholy  waste 
of  time.  There  was  little  pleasure  in  watching  such 
awkward  work,  and  I  soon  retraced  my  steps  to 
Freneau's,  where  things  were  not  done  by  haphazard 
guesswork. 

Evening  was  now  approaching,  and  I  went  into  the 
lodging-house.  The  entrance  opened  on  a  low,  dark 
apartment  which  was  called  the  bar-room,  though  there 
was  no  bar,  and  no  liquors  were  sold  in  the  camp.  Its 
correspondence  to  its  name  lay  in  its  being  the  men's 
loafing-place  when  they  were  not  at  work.  In  one 
corner  was  a  long  sink,  with  a  barrel  close  by  into 
which  excellent  water  flowed  from  a  spring  up  the  hill. 
A  cracked  box-stove  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  there  was  a  big  grindstone  near  a  window,  and 
several  rude  benches  against  the  walls.  The  dining 
room  adjoined.  It  was  nearly  filled  by  four  long 
tables.  Separated  from  it  by  a  slight  partition  was  the 
office  of  the  camp,  serving  also  as  a  storeroom  and 
retail  shop  —  a  small,  narrow  room  with  a  box  nailed 
against  the  wall  for  a  desk,  and  many  shelves  piled  with 
gatherings  of  all  kinds.  Here  were  axes,  chains,  rope, 
parts  of  harness,  and  a  supply  of  old  periodicals  pre- 
sented by  some  religious  society.  Then  there  were 
socks,  mittens,  overalls,  and  undershirts  for  sale,  and, 
in  the  way  of  luxuries,  plug  tobacco,  of  which  the  men 
consumed  great  quantities. 

When    it    began    to    grow   dark  the  workers  came 


When   the   White   Mountains  are  White        43 


trooping  in  to  supper,  and,  that  disposed  of,  adjourned 
to  the  bar-room  to  spend  the  evening  lounging  and 
smoking.  They  enjoyed  the  heat  and  the  relaxation, 
and  I  suppose  did  not  mind  the  gloom,  only  slightly 
mitigated  by  a  single  lamp  and  stray  gleams  from  the 
cracks  of  the  stove.  At  nine  we  all  went  upstairs  to  the 
loft  where  we  were 
to  sleep.  This  loft 
was  even  more 
barnlike  than  the 
rest  of  the  house. 
On  the  floor  around 
the  room  borders 
was  a  row  of  bunks, 
and  above  these 
was  another  row, 
all  made  of  boards 
and  furnished  with 
straw  mattresses 
and  coarse  blankets. 
The  men  did  not 
disrobe  much,  save 
to  take  off  their 
jackets  and  shoes, 
and  soon  the  dim  ln  thc  sl'cPing  Apartment 

lamp  which  had  furnished  us  with  light  was  extinguished 
and  the  scattering  talk  lapsed  into  silence.  Yet  there 
would  still  be  an  occasional  cough,  or  some  one  would 


44  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

rise  on  his  elbow  to  spit  on  the  floor.  These  mani- 
festations of  wakefulness  also  ceased  presently,  and  no 
sound  could  be  heard  save  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
sleepers.  1  did  not  drop  off  as  readily  as  the  others ; 
for  the  situation  was  new  to  me,  and  the  bed  was  too 
densely  saturated  with  stale  tobacco  fumes  that  had 
been  accumulating  all  winter ;  and,  besides,  I  had  the 
fancy  I  might  be  attacked  by  crawlers.  My  concern 
on  this  score  proved  needless,  and  when  I  finally  slept 
I  was  awakened  only  once.  That  was  about  midnight. 
One  of  the  men  was  singing  in  his  sleep,  and  he  went 
leisurely  and  melodiously  through  a  long  ballad  in 
French. 

Morning  was  welcome,  and  I  was  up  with  the  first 
risers  and  went  down  to  the  kitchen — a  commodious 
lean-to  immediately  beyond  the  dining  room.  The 
work  there  was  done  by  a  little  old  German  and  his 
wife  assisted  by  a  boy.  Around  the  walls  were  shelves 
and  broad  counters,  and  everywhere  were  boxes  and 
barrels  of  supplies,  piles  of  tin  tableware,  pots  and  pans, 
and  tubs  and  kettles  ;  and  a  trap-door  in  the  floor  gave 
access  to  an  excavation  in  which  were  stored  potatoes. 
The  cooking  was  done  on  a  great  flat  stove. 

During  the  winter  the  fifty  men  consumed  a  barrel 
of  flour  each,  sixty  bushels  of  beans,  two  hundred 
bushels  of  potatoes,  seven  hundred  pounds  of  oleo- 
margarine, one  hundred  pounds  of  tea,  and  a  vast 
amount  of  meat  and  fish.  There  was  almost  no  varia- 


When  the  White   Mountains  are   White        45 

tion  in  the  daily  fare,  except  that  on  Friday  salt  codfish 
was  substituted  for  meat.  Bread,  butter,  tea,  and  mo- 
lasses appeared  on  the  table  at  every  meal.  The  tea 
was  not  very  strong,  but  it  was  unlimited  in  quantity, 
and  it  was  kept  long  enough  on  the  stove  to  acquire 
plenty  of  color.  It  was  served  without  milk  or  sugar. 
Sugar  was  formerly  supplied,  but  the  men  were  waste- 
ful, put  in  half  a  dozen  spoonfuls  or  more  and  left  the 
bottom  of  their  cups  covered  with  half-dissolved  crystals 
after  they  had  drank  the  tea.  They  seemed  to  have 
a  particular  fondness  for  molasses,  and  hardly  a  man 
failed,  three  times  a  day,  to  pour  on  his  tin  plate  a 
generous  puddle  in  which  he  proceeded  to  sop  his 
bread. 

Beans  and  brown  bread  were  the  breakfast  staples, 
but  these  as  served  at  Freneau's  were  not  considered 
first-class,  for  they  were  baked  in  the  stove  oven. 
Most  camps  have  a  bean-hole  —  an  excavation  three 
or  four  feet  deep  in  the  ground  just  outside  the  log 
dwelling.  A  fire  is  built  in  it,  and  when  the  wood  is 
reduced  to  a  great  heap  of  coals  the  bean-pot  is  put  in 
with  some  tins  of  brown  bread  on  top.  Then  the  pot 
is  covered  with  coals,  and  ashes  and  earth  are  heaped  on. 
It  is  left  thus  through  the  night,  to  be  exhumed  the 
following  morning,  and  the  woodsmen  all  agree  that 
bean-hole  beans  are  far  superior  to  the  oven  product. 

At  noon  Freneau's  men  had  potatoes  and  boiled 
meat.  The  meat  was  usually  beef,  but  occasionally 


46 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


was  fresh  pork.    For  supper  the  meat  and  potatoes  were 
served  again,  this  time  chopped  into  lumps  and  mixed 

together.  Dough- 
nuts appeared  on 
the  table  morning 
and  noon,  and 
cookies  at  night. 
I  was  told  that 
this  fare  as  com- 
pared with  what 
the  Canadian 
French  had  at 
home  was  para- 
dise ;  but  it  was 
a  good  deal  hum- 
bler than  that  in 
the  average  of  the 
camps,  and  sto- 
ries were  related 
of  Yankee  camps 
where  they  had 
steaks  and  ham, 
cake,  bread,  and 
raisin  pudding, 
and  two  or  three 

A  Corner  of  the  Camp  Kitchen  i  •    j        c 

kinds  or  pie. 

I  wondered  that  those  two  old  people  in   Freneau's 
kitchen  could  care   for  their  large  household.     They 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White        47 

looked  to  be  about  seventy  years  of  age.  Both  were 
thin  and  gray,  the  man  crooked  and  stooping,  the 
woman  wrinkled  but  upright.  They  worked  hard  and 
made  long  days. 

.  "  I  gets  up  at  three  o'clock  every  morning  from  dot 
bed,"  said  the  man,  pointing  to  a  rude  couch  in  a  far 
corner,  "  and  I  have  on  my  underclothes  and  nightcap, 
and  I  don't  stop  not  to  put  on  nothings  more  but  my 
rubber  boots,  and  then  I  makes  to  start  the  fires  here 
and  in  the  next  room  and  in  the  bar-room,  and  about 
in  twenty  minutes  I  get  them  all  roar. 

"  Then  my  wife  she  get  up,  and  we  begin  get 
breakfast.  The  boy  what  is  suppose  to  help,  we  not 
see  him  until  one-two  hour  later.  He  like  an  old  man 
-  he  so  careful  of  hisself.  He  would  be  kill  to  get  up 
like  me.  We  have  the  breakfast  at  half-past  five,  but 
these  las'  few  week  it  is  not  so  soon,  for  the  men  they 
get  not  up  when  I  rings  the  bell.  They  work  like  a 
tiger  when  they  come  at  the  begin  of  winter,  but  now 
they  have  got  kind  o'  balky  and  will  not  to  hurry. 

"  These  French,  they  are  as  more  like  cattle  as  any- 
thing I  have  seen.  All  they  have  not  is  the  horns. 
They  eat  like  cattle,  and  sleep  like  cattle,  and  they 
have  not  care  nothings  about  your  house  if  it  is  clean 
or  not.  They  spittin'  everywhere  —  on  the  floor  - 
everywhere.  An  American  man,  he  take  off  the  stove- 
cover  and  spit  in,  or  he  go  outside.  But  not  so  the 
French.  Look,  too,  the  way  they  eat.  At  the  family 


48  New   England  and  its   Neighbors 

table,  which  is  what  I  call  to  make  high  tone  of  it 
same  like  hotel  —  dot  where  is  set  the  boss  and  the 
teamsters  who  mos'ly  not  from  Canada,  —  and  they 
eat  jus'  one-quarter  what  do  the  others.  They  have 
the  same  kind,  but  they  take  not  so  much.  How 
much  bread  you  think  I  makes  every  day,  hey?  It  is 
so  much  as  fifty  loaves ! 

"  All  the  time  these  French,  they  feelin'  good.  The 
least  little  thing  they  will  laugh,  and  so  hearty  !  —  it 
seem  to  them  so  awful  funny.  They  are  jus'  like 
colored  people,  I  make  it  —  so  easy  to  please  as  a 
child.  But  they  do  not  play  much  —  only  checkers 
sometimes,  and  one  more  game,  which  you  lean  over 
mit  your  face  in  your  hat  and  put  your  hand  flat  out 
behind  you.  The  others  they  all  stand  round,  and 
some  one  he  slaps  your  hand,  and  you  jump  quick  mit 
your  eyes  out  of  your  hat,  and  try  if  you  can  see  who 
it  was.  If  you  say  right,  dot  one  takes  your  place. 
They  play  dot  game  much  and  for  long  time  and 
laugh  and  think  it  more  funny  as  anything  in  the 
world.  Other  camps  they  play  card;  but  Mr.  Fre- 
neau  do  not  allow  card  for  because  they  gamble  their 
money  and  perhaps  they  fight.  Last  year  some  they 
play  in  the  blacksmith  shop  of  our  camp,  and  the  boss 
he  found  about  it  and  turn  them  off. 

"  On  Sundays  we  do  not  our  breakfast  eat  until 
eight,  and  the  men  that  day  lie  much  in  their  bunks, 
and  some  read  papers.  But  the  half,  they  can- 


A    SCALER 


When  the   White   Mountains  are  White        49 

not  read  at  all,  they  are  so  ignorant ;  and  so  one 
man  he  may  read  aloud  to  a  good  many.  They  mend 
their  clothings  on  Sunday,  and  perhaps  they  wash  clean 
their  underwears  and  hang  them  to  dry,  and  they  might 
whittle  out  some  axe-helve.  It  is  now  coming  spring, 
and  we  begin  have  warm  Sundays,  and  the  men  they  go 
out  and  run  to  chase  themselves  and  crow  like  a  rooster 
and  blat  like  a  sheep  and  all  sort  of  noise,  and  see 
which  the  strongest  man  at  rolling  logs. 

"  You  might  thinks  we  be  lonesome  here,  but  we 
have  to  keep  too  busy  for  dot.  I  have  intend,  though, 
not  to  come  into  the  woods  again  another  time.  It 
is  too  much  cold.  This  kitchen,  it  is  like  one  ice- 
house. There  are  cracks  so  many  the  heat  all  go  out. 
We  had  one  night  thirty-four  below  zero,  and  my 
bread  it  all  froze  and  had  to  be  thaw  before  I  could 
get  a  knife  into  it.  Dot  most  scare  me.  We  tries  to 
be  neat,  and  we  wants  to  mop  the  floor  often,  but  when 
it  cold  the  water  freeze  right  on  the  boards.  Oh,  you 
can't  think  there  is  no  fun  sometimes. 

"  The  taters  what  we  use  now  have  got  freeze,  too, 
and  most  all  the  days  until  this  week  the  windows  are 
frost  all  over  so  thick  we  cannot  look  out,  and  I  have 
to  fight  and  fight  to  get  the  wood  dot  we  burn.  I 
want  not  to  meddle  mit  anythings  not  my  business, 
but  how  we  can  cook  if  we  have  not  the  wood?  It 
is  the  dry  wood  only  we  use  from  trees  dot  are  dead 
and  stand  up  —  and  you  be  surprise  the  wood  in  them 


50  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

so  dry  as  one  bone.  If  they  fall  they  get  full  of  wet  in 
no  times.  It  kind  of  small  work  chop  wood  for  stoves, 
and  the  men  not  like  to  spend  the  time  to  bother.  I 
wish  not  to  fight,  but  it  is  hard  not  to  do  dot  mit  some 
beoples.  You  have  keep  shut  your  eyes  if  you  don't 
want  to  have  troubles  mit  them.  That  wood  makes  me 
much  worry  and  extra  works." 

The  cook  while  he  talked  did  not  pause  in  his  labor 
save  now  and  then  to  cast  his  eyes  toward  me  at  the 
more  important  points  and  make  sure  that  I  under- 
stood. But  now  he  stopped  both  his  remarks  and  his 
work  to  peer  out  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  low  back  door. 
"  Did  you  never  see  this  bird  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

I  went  to  the  window,  arid  there  was  a  woodpecker 
digging  away  at  a  haunch  of  beef  that  lay  over  a  barrel 
outside.  Later  I  inquired  of  one  of  the  sealers  about 
the  wild  creatures  of  the  winter  woods,  and  he  mentioned 
seeing  bluejays,  chickadees,  and  flocks  of  snow-buntings. 
Red  squirrels  were  plentiful  around  the  camp  and  made 
away  with  a  good  deal  of  corn  from  the  storehouse. 
Often  he  came  across  fox  and  rabbit  tracks  on  the 
snow,  and  some  of  the  men  had  seen  a  deer. 

Nearly  all  the  time  I  was  in  the  logging  camp  it 
snowed,  though  never  with  much  vigor,  and  there 
were  spells  when  the  storm  would  cease  and  the 
clouds  lift,  disclosing  the  mountains  rising  in  serene 
majesty  all  around.  I  could  as  easily  have  believed 
their  ghostly  heights  were  dreams  as  realities,  so  un- 


When  the  White   Mountains  are  White        51 

expectedly  did  they  loom  forth  from  the  void,  and  so 
strangely  transformed  and  unsubstantial  did  they  appear 
with  the  snow  delicately  frosting  their  tree-clad  slopes  to 
the  remotest  peak.  But  these  wider  outlooks  were  as 
fleeting  as  they  were  enchanting,  and  soon  the  veil  of 
falling  flakes  would  droop  over  the  crystal  summits,  and 
the  world  would  quickly  dwindle  to  a  little  patch  of 
snowbound  forest  close  about.  This  latter  view  was 
the  most  characteristic  one  as  far  as  my  experience  is 
concerned,  and  it  is  this  vision  which  remains  with  me 
most  vividly  —  a  fragmentary  vignette  of  the  great  white 
woods,  pure  and  unsullied  beyond  expression. 


A  Logging-camp   Dwelling 


Ill 


A    RUIN    BESIDE    LAKE    CHAMPLAIN 


w 


HAT      river     is 
that  ?  "  asked  the 
man     occupying 
the  seat  in  front  of  me  as  our 
train  began  to  skirt  the  shores 
of  a  body  of  water  about  sev- 
enty-five miles  north  of  Al- 
bany. 

He  put  the  question  to 
the  conductor  who  responded, 
"  That's  Lake  Champlain." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  Why, 
I  could  throw  across  it  !  I 
had  no  idea  it  was  so  narrow," 
and  the  man  seemed  disap- 
pointed as  well  as  surprised. 

He  would  have  found  a 
good  deal  of  difficulty  in 
throwing  across,  yet  the  lake  really  is  extremely  attenu- 
ated at  the  south  end,  and  slenderness  is  a  characteristic 

52 


Considering  his  Neighbor's 
Fields 


A   Ruin  beside   Lake  Champlain  53 

even  to  its  outlet.  On  a  clear  day,  especially,  the 
opposite  shore  is  so  distinct  and  apparently  near  that 
it  requires  an  effort  to  remember  you  are  looking  on  a 
lake  and  not  the  broad  channel  of  a  stream.  When 
the  distance  is  veiled  in  summer  haze  or  with  falling 
rain  this  effect  is  less  marked,  the  other  shore  seems 
farther  removed,  and  the  charm  of  the  lake  is  greatly 
enhanced. 

The  aspect  of  the  surrounding  country  is  gentle  and 
pastoral.  There  are  occasional  wooded  ridges,  and 
there  are  mountains,  blue  and  dreamy  along  the  hori- 
zon, that  are  as  calmly  beautiful  as  the  "  Delectable 
Mountains"  of  John  Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress"; 
but  the  landscape  immediately  adjoining  the  lake  is 
nearly  always  one  of  fertile  and  well-cultivated  farm 
fields.  Villages  and  towns  are  frequent,  most  of  them 
wholly  rural,  with  white  houses  among  elm,  maple,  and 
apple  trees,  and  a  church  spire  or  two  rising  above  the 
foliage. 

The  region  is  not  an  industrial  centre.  It  is  off  the 
main  thoroughfares  of  trade,  and,  so  far  as  I  could  judge, 
even  the  little  manufacturing  it  had  was  on  the  wane. 
For  instance,  at  Crown  Point  were  iron-works  run 
until  recently  ;  but  now  the  furnaces  are  cold,  and  the 
smoke  no  longer  drifts  from  the  tall  chimneys,  and  the 
huddled,  brown-painted  homes  of  the  operatives  in 
regular  streets  with  their  distressing  alikeness  and  bar- 
renness of  surroundings  are  all  vacant. 


54 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


"  It  ain't  easy  to  make  small  plants  pay  nowadays," 
explained  a  native,  "  and  this  one  busted  up  and  went 
to  pieces  last  year." 

But  if  things  looked  rather  dismal  around  the  Crown 
Point  iron-works  by  the  lakeside,  the  town  up  the  hill 
seemed  to  be  unaffected  by  the  disaster  —  a  simple, 


In  Crown  Point  Village 

pleasant  country  place,  the  abode  of  farmers  and  a  few 
shopkeepers.  It  had  a  delightfully  sleepy,  easy-going 
air  as  I  saw  it  one  spring  day.  A  man  on  his  way  to  the 
fields  was  driving  two  horses  attached  to  a  plough  through 
the  street,  a  carriage  was  hitched  in  front  of  a  store 
while  the  owner  was  inside  doing  some  trading,  and 
on  the  door-sill  of  another  store  sat  two  men  visiting. 


A   Ruin  beside   Lake  Champlain  55 

I  rambled  on  past  the  common  with  its  flagstaffand  its 
soldiers'  monument  of  the  usual  type  —  a  column  bear- 
ing the  names  of  several  of  the  most  important  battles 
of  the  Rebellion  with  a  standing  soldier  on  top,  —  and 
I  kept  on  until  I  left  the  central  village.  The  houses 
became  scattering,  and  there  were  rough  hollows  given 
up  to  pasturage,  and,  athwart  the  west,  were  forest-clad 
mountains.  That  it  was  spring  with  summer  coming 
was  very  apparent  from  the  work  going  forward  about 
the  homes  —  woodpiles  being  wheeled  in  from  the 
yards  to  the  sheds,  the  scratching  together  and  setting 
on  fire  heaps  of  brush  and  rubbish,  and  the  sowing  and 
planting  in  the  gardens.  When  a  garden  was  near  the 
road  it  always  attracted  the  interest  of  passers,  and  if  a 
man  going  along  on  foot  found  his  neighbor  at  work 
with  his  hoe  in  the  garden  plot,  he  was  apt  to  lean  over 
the  fence  and  get  and  give  some  agricultural  advice, 
and  at  the  same  time  swap  the  latest  items  of  local 
news. 

On  my  way  back  to  the  town  I  encountered  a  small 
boy,  slopping  about  the  borders  of  a  marshy  roadside 
pool,  looking  for  frogs.  He  had  captured  two  of  the 
creatures  and  was  carrying  them  in  one  hand  by 
the  hind  legs.  The  boy  was  perfectly  oblivious  ot 
the  fact  that  the  frogs  had  feeling.  Their  distress  was 
naught  to  him.  He  had  no  purpose  in  catching  them 
beyond  idle  curiosity — the  gratification  of  some  sav- 
age aboriginal  instinct.  When  I  produced  a  penny, 


56  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

he  willingly  ,set  the  frogs  free  and  started  off  in  a  bee- 
line  for  the  nearest  candy  store. 

A  man  not  far  away,  repairing  a  zigzag  rail  fence, 
had  paused  in  the  process  of  driving  in  a  stake  to 
watch  the  frog  transaction.  He  was  a  stubby,  elderly 
man,  with  a  brush  of  gray  whiskers  under  his  chin. 

"  There's  plenty  of  them  creeturs  this  year,"  he 
said,  as  the  boy  disappeared  ;  "  I  got  a  pond  near  my 
house  and  the  frogs  holler  so  nights  in  that  air  pond, 
I  can't  hardly  sleep.  Last  Sunday,  I  believe  it  was,  1 
got  up  out  o'  bed  about  'leven  o'clock  and  went  down 
and  flung  some  stones  at  'em.  They  stopped  then, 
but  they  was  all  goin'  it  bad  as  ever  by  the  time  I  got 
back  to  the  house." 

"  How  many  cows  do  you  keep  in  this  pasture  of 
yours  ?  "  I  inquired,  changing  the  subject. 

"  Thirteen." 

"  Isn't  that  an  unlucky  number  ?  " 

"  Maybe  'tis,  but  I  know  I  get  more  from  those 
thirteen  than  some  of  my  neighbors  do  from  twice  as 
many.  I  was  born  and  raised  on  the  other  side  of  the 
lake.  They  know  how  to  farm  over  there,  and  they're 
bringin'  no  end  o'  produce  acrost  every  year  that  we 
had  ought  to  raise  ourselves.  You  see  this  'ere  lot 
up  the  hill  here  next  to  my  pastur'.  It  belongs  to 
the  man  that  lives  in  that  green  and  yellow  house  just 
beyond  the  church,  and  there  ain't  no  better  land  in 
the  state  of  New  York,  but  he  gets  mighty  slim  crops 


MENDING  THE  PASTURE  FENCE 


A  Ruin  beside  Lake  Champlain  57 

off'n  it.  I'd  like  to  see  a  Vermont  man  farm  that  lot 
awhile.  If  you  ain't  never  been  around  in  the  c  i- 
try  over  the  lake  you'd  better  pay  it  a  visit ;  and  there's 
old  Fort  Frederick,  too,  over  there  at  Chimley  .  jint, 
you'd  like  to  see." 

But  instead  of  visiting  Vermont  and  Chimney  Point 
I  went  southward  to  Ticonderoga.  I  made  a  blunder- 
ing journey;  for  I  learned,  after  going  sadly  astray,  that 
if  one  would  leave  the  train  at  the  station  nearest  the 
ancient  fortress,  he  must  alight  neither  at  Ticonderoga 
nor  at  Fort  1  iconderoga,  but  at  a  place  called  Addison 
Junction.  This  last  is  not  a  town.  It  i:>  not  even  a 
village.  The  habitations  consist  of  a  farm-house  or  two 
and  several  rusty  little  dwellings  in  which  live  workers 
on  the  railroad. 

I  arrived  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  my  first  care  was 
to  find  a    place    to    stay    over    night.      Close    by  the 
tracks,    next    the  station,  was  a    small   house   marked 
"  Restaurant."    The  station-master  assured  me  I  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  getting  lodging  there,  though  t*~ 
prospect  of  doing  so  seemed  to  me  rather  disrr. 
he  proved  to  be  right.     The  restaurant  part  con. 
of  a  single  small  room  with  a  counter  across  the 
A  short  glass  case  on  the  counter  contained  a  display 
cigars,  and  the  wall  behind  was  built  up  with  shelve 
scantily  set  with  bottles  and  a  few  boxes  of  plug  tobacco. 
The  house  was  kept  by  North  of  England  people.    They 
had  come  over  twenty  years  before,  but  they  still   re- 


58  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

tained  their  peculiar  home  accent,  said  "  Ay  "  instead 
of  "  Yes,"  and  constantly  addressed  me  as  "  Sir"  ;  while 
the  hired  girl,  after  the  English  fashion,  called  the  land- 
lady "  the  Missus."  The  latter  was  setting  the  supper 
table  when  I  came  in,  and  soon  informed  me  the  meal 
was  ready. 

After  I  had  eaten,  as  it  was  too  late  to  hunt  up  the 
old  fortress,  I  loitered  down  to  a  ferry  not  far  from  my 
stopping-place.  The  ferryman  was  doing  some  tinker- 
ing on  shore,  and  the  boat  was  fastened  for  the  night. 
It  was  a  flat-bottomed  scow  that  would  carry  comfort- 
ably about  three  teams.  The  power  used  was  steam, 
but  many  Champlain  ferry-boats  employ  sails  instead, 
thus  obliging  whoever  runs  one  of  the  craft  to  coax 
it  along  with  oars,  or  by  poling,  when  the  wind  is 
light. 

All  through  the  winter  the  lake  is  frozen  over,  and 
the  ice  makes  an  excellent  bridge.  "  You  can  drive 
anywhere  on  it,"  said  the  ferryman,  "  but  mostly  they 
only  go  from  shore  to  shore,  unless  they  fix  up  a  track 
for  a  hoss  race." 

"  Are  there  ever  any  accidents  ?  "   I  inquired. 

"  Well,  yes,  folks  are  apt  to  get  careless,  and  they 
keep  goin'  after  the  ice  begins  to  rot  in  the  spring.  The 
last  man  that  broke  through  here  was  a  Dutchman  by  the 
name  of  Schwillbug  or  something  of  that  sort.  He  was 
a  pedler  and  he  had  a  fine  hoss,  and  a  cart  that  was 
all  painted  up  slick  as  you  please.  Over  on  the  other 


A  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN  FERRY 


A   Ruin   beside   Lake  Champlain  59 

side  there  seems  to  be  a  little  current  at  the  end  of  the 
ferry  wharf,  and  we  mostly  don't  go  off  the  ice  right 
on  to  the  wharf  but  take  a  turn  out  around  it.  We 
told  the  Dutchman  how  this  was,  but  he  knew  better 
and  said  there  was  no  danger  whatever.  So  he  drove 
straight  for  the  wharf  and  in  he  went.  He  got 
out  himself,  but  he  lost  his  cart  and  he  lost  his 
hoss." 

The  sun  had  set  while  I  lingered  at  the  ferry.  Now 
in  the  deepening  dusk  I  walked  far  up  over  a  western 
hill,  at  first  through  the  woods  and  then  between 
pastures  and  occasional  cultivated  fields.  I  went  on 
till  from  the  brow  of  a  hill  I  overlooked  a  low  valley, 
a-twinkle  with  the  cheerful  lights  of  a  town.  A  whip- 
poorwill  was  calling  from  a  woodland  hollow,  and 
numerous  blundering  beetles  were  rising  from  the  grass 
and  buzzing  amid  the  new  leafage  of  the  trees. 

Here  and  there  were  houses  on  the  upland,  and  as 
I  went  back  I  noted  them  more  particularly.  They 
were  little,  clapboarded,  unpainted  cabins  that  bore  a 
close  resemblance  to  the  negro  hut  of  the  South.  Some 
of  them  were  scarcely  large  enough  to  contain  one 
decent-sized  room,  but  I  suppose  they  usually  had  at 
least  a  kitchen,  a  bedroom  and,  overhead,  a  low  cham- 
ber. Most  of  the  dwellings  had  an  accompaniment 
of  sheds  and  a  small  barn,  and  the  premises  were  strewn 
with  litter  and  unsheltered  tools  and  vehicles.  Under 
the  eaves  of  each  house  was  a  water-barrel  and,  close 


60  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

by,  a  nondescript  and  meagre  pile  of  wood  still  uncut. 
Apparently  the  inmates  never  got  a  supply  of  stove 
wood  ready  ahead,  but  daily  used  axe  and  saw  when 
necessity  compelled.  The  hamlet  was  a  characteristic 
community  of  poor  whites  —  a  gathering  of  the  shiftless, 
the  unenergetic  and  unambitious,  and  to  some  extent 
of  the  vicious.  I  inquired  later  about  these  people, 
questioning  if  there  was  not  a  prospect  of  their  better- 
ing themselves  and  whether  their  poverty  was  a 
necessity. 

"  They  live  along  from  year  to  year  just  about  the 
same,"  was  the  reply,  "  and  I  can't  say  as  they  improve 
any.  They  could  get  ahead  if  they  was  a  min'  to.  But 
what  some  folks  don't  spend  on  eatables  they  spend  on 
drinkables,  and  that's  the  whole  secret  of  it." 

At  my  lodging-place,  when  I  returned,  "Kit"  the 
hired  girl  was  putting  on  her  things  preparatory  to 
going  to  a  neighbor's  to  watch  with  a  sick  woman  for 
the  night.  "  She's  got  the  typhoid,"  Kit  explained, 
"  and  the  Missus  and  me  and  quite  a  number  of 
women  around  here  go  in  and  help  what  we  can. 
Land's  sake !  I  do'  know  what  they'd  do  if  we 
didn't,  though  they've  got  the  handiest  little  girl  there 
I  ever  see.  She's  only  ten,  poor  little  soul,  but  she's 
a  worker,  and  she  can  cook  as  well  as  a  grown  person. 
Her  father's  a  brakeman  on  the  railroad,  and  he  says 
since  his  wife's  been  sick  he's  never  come  home  but 
that  girl  of  hisn's  had  the  victuals  ready  right  on  time. 


A   Ruin  beside   Lake  Champlain 


61 


When  she  ain't  nothing  else  to  do  she  likes  to  sit  and 
rock  and  read.     She's  a  regular  old  grandma  —  that's 


Rhubarb 

what  she  is.      There's  six  children  and  she's  the  oldest. 
She  takes  good  care  of  the  little  shavers,  specially  the 


62  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

baby.  Yesterday  I  gave  her  an  apple  and  'stead  of 
eating  it  herself  she  pared  it  and  gave  it  to  the  baby. 
He  was  sitting  on  the  floor  with  it  when  I  come  away 
and  she  said,  '  You  bet  he'll  keep  a-lappin'  that  till 
he's  lapped  it  all  down.'  Well,  I  must  be  goin'  or  that 
girl'll  lock  the  door  and  go  to  bed." 

The  next  morning  was  fair  and  warm.  The 
meadows  Were  jubilant  with  bobolinks,  and  great  num- 
bers of  swallows  that  had  homes  in  the  lakeside  banks 
were  darting  hither  and  thither.  I  made  an  early  start 
and  turned  my  footsteps  toward  the  old  fort.  It  was 
barely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  station  in  a  direct 
line,  but  the  route  thither  was  by  a  devious  farm  road 
through  the  fields.  This  road  was  little  used  and  was 
hardly  more  than  a  few  wheel  ruts  cutting  into  the  turf. 
It  went  through  several  bar-ways  and  two  or  three 
dooryards  and  ended  at  a  pasture  gate  which  was  wired 
so  securely  I  was  compelled  to  clamber  over. 

In  the  pasture  a  herd  of  ponies  was  feeding  and  they 
came  nibbling  toward  me  to  investigate.  But  when 
they  discovered  that  I  was  bound  for  the  ancient  forti- 
fications, they  seemed  to  lose  interest  and  left  me  to  my 
fate.  On  the  highest  slope  of  the  pasture  I  had  seen 
from  afar  a  group  of  ruins.  The  more  prominent  of 
them  were  the  gray,  ragged  stone  walls  of  what  had 
been  the  officers'  barracks.  These  were  hardly  massive 
or  extensive  enough  to  be  exactly  imposing,  yet  they 
looked  satisfactorily  historic  and  they  gained  much 


A   Ruin  beside   Lake  Champlain  63 

from  their  striking  situation.  The  land  falls  away  to 
the  north  and  west  very  gradually,  but  to  the  east  and 
south  it  drops  in  steep  bluffs  and  green-turfed  declivi- 
ties to  the  lake,  and  the  height  commands  the  water- 
way most  thoroughly.  The  crowning  ridge  of  the 
pasture  was  upheaved  in  a  chaos  of  stone  walls,  great 
ditches,  and  grass-grown  banks,  and  there  were  lesser 
fortifications  scattered  over  a  considerable  area  neigh- 
boring. The  walls  of  some  of  the  old  barracks  were 
yet  fairly  intact,  and  I  could  see  what  had  been  their 
original  height  and  where  had  been  the  windows  and 
the  fireplaces  ;  but  our  climate  is  not  kindly  to  ruins, 
and  the  stones  are  constantly  dropping  and  the  walls 
crumbling.  It  is  a  wild,  neglected  spot.  The  mullein 
grows  stoutly  here  and  there,  and  1  found  the  mounds 
and  ditches  much  overrun  with  clumps  of  thorn  trees 
and  cedars  and  by  a  thicket  of  little  poplars  with  their 
leaves  a-flutter  in  the  breeze. 

The  sole  garrison  of  the  place  seemed  to  be  a  wood- 
chuck.  He  saw  me  coming  while  I  was  still  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  and  hastened  toward  his  hole  in  one 
of  the  earthworks.  But  his  curiosity  was  greater  than 
his  discretion,  and  he  would  make  a  little  run  and  then 
pause  to  learn  what  were  my  intentions.  When  he 
reached  the  mouth  of  his  hole,  he  waited  until  I  came 
within  two  rods  of  him.  Then  he  dove  down  out  of 
sight.  I  stood  a  few  moments  to  see  whether  he  had 
gone  for  good,  and  shortly  he  poked  his  nose  out 


64  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

again,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that  he  had  his  eyes  on 
me  all  the  time  that  I  spent  in  the  vicinity  of  his  citadel. 

Few  places  on  our  continent  excel  Ticonderoga  in 
historic  attraction.  Even  the  name  is  sonorous  and 
heroic,  and  its  capture  by  Ethan  Allen  is  one  of  the 
best-remembered  events  of  the  Revolution.  The 
victory  was  a  bloodless  one,  yet  the  story  has  many 
picturesque  accessories  that  stir  patriotic  enthusiasm. 
Western  Massachusetts  and  Vermont  were  at  that  time 
sparsely  settled,  and  the  greater  portion  of  them  and  of 
northern  New  York  was  an  undisturbed  wilderness. 
Roadways  were  few  and  it  was  customary  for  travellers 
going  north  and  south  in  this  district  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  natural  highway  furnished  by  the  Hudson, 
Lakes  George  and  Champlain,  and  the  Richelieu  River. 

To  secure  this  route  to  themselves  the  French  had 
long  before  pushed  southward  from  Canada  and  built 
frequent  blockhouses  and  other  defences;  and  in  1735 
they  erected  Fort  Carillon,  or  as  it  was  afterward 
known,  Fort  Ticonderoga,  the  strongest  fortress  on 
American  soil.  So  powerful  was  it  that  its  existence 
caused  not  a  little  anxiety  in  England.  An  attempt 
was  made  by  the  English  to  capture  it  in  1758,  but 
after  repeated  assaults  and  great  losses  the  attacking 
force  retreated  utterly  demoralized  toward  Albany. 
The  next  year  another  large  force  advanced  on  Carillon 
and  the  French  blew  up  that  and  the  rest  of  the  forts 
along  the  lake  and  fell  back  to  Canada. 


A    Ruin   beside   Lake   Champlain 


Ticonderoga  Ruins 

By  the  Knglish  the  stronghold  was  rebuilt  and  its 
name  changed  to  Ticonderoga,  the  Indian  name  of  a 
neighboring  waterfall.  Because  of  the  strength  and 
importance  of  Ticonderoga's  location,  the  Colonies  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Revolution  were  naturally  anxious 
to  possess  it.  The  initiative  toward  accomplishing  this 
object  was  taken  by  several  gentlemen  in  Connecticut, 
who  got  together  secretly  at  Hartford,  in  April,  1775, 
and  having  found  certain  persons  willing  to  engage  in 
the  enterprise,  furnished  them  with  funds  to  buy  sup- 
plies and  defray  the  other  expenses  that  might  be 
incurred.  These  persons  set  off  immediately  for 
Bennington,  Vermont,  with  the  intention  of  getting 


66  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

Colonel  Ethan  Allen  to  join  in  the  undertaking  and 
help  raise  an  adequate  force  for  the  capture  of  the  fort. 
On  the  way  their  numbers  grew  to  about  sixty,  and 
a  hundred  more  men  were  soon  added  from  the  hills 
of  the  New  Hampshire  Grants,  as  Vermont  was  then 
called.  A  vote  was  then  taken,  to  determine  who 
should  be  the  leader,  and  the  honor  was  awarded  to 
Colonel  Allen. 

Meanwhile,  a  committee  in  eastern  Massachusetts, 
unaware  of  the  action  of  the  Connecticut  conclave, 
appointed  Benedict  Arnold,  who  was  then  at  Cam- 
bridge, "  commander-in-chief  "  over  a  body  of  men  not 
exceeding  four  hundred  which  he  was  directed  to  enlist, 
and  with  them  to  reduce  the  fort  at  Ticonderoga.  To 
carry  this  commission  into  effect  Arnold  promptly  pro- 
ceeded to  the  western  part  of  the  state,  where  he  learned, 
much  to  his  chagrin,  that  his  plan  had  been  forestalled. 
He  then  hastened  with  a  single  attendant  to  join  the 
little  band  in  Vermont,  and  on  the  8th  of  May  over- 
took the  Green  Mountain  Boys  just  as  they  had  com- 
pleted their  preparations  and  were  about  to  set  forth. 
But  Arnold  had  no  sooner  arrived  than  he  asserted  the 
right  to  take  command  of  the  entire  expedition,  alleging 
that  this  was  his  due  by  virtue  of  his  commission  from 
the  Massachusetts  committee.  To  this  high-handed 
claim  the  rank  and  file  of  the  troop  strenuously  ob- 
jected. They  chose  to  go  under  their  own  officers  or 
not  at  all,  and  were  for  "  clubbing  their  muskets  and 


A  Ruin  beside  Lake  Champlain  67 

marching  home."  Indeed,  such  a  mutiny  arose  that 
the  whole  design  was  almost  frustrated.  But  the  matter 
was  finally  settled,  and  Arnold  was  to  some  extent  pla- 
cated by  being  assigned  an  honorary  place  and  allowed 
to  move  at  the  head  of  the  column  on  Colonel  Allen's 
left. 

The  Americans  by  the  night  of  the  gth  had  con- 
trived to  cross  the  lake,  and  lay  near  the  fort  waiting 
for  daybreak.  With  the  first  hint  of  morning  light 
Allen  led  his  followers  to  the  entrance  of  the  fort. 
The  gate  was  shut,  but  the  wicket  was  open,  and 
though  the  sentry  snapped  his  fusee,  before  the  alarm 
he  gave  could  summon  his  comrades,  the  Americans 
had  dashed  into  the  fort  and  raised  the  Indian  war- 
whoop.  Little  resistance  was  offered.  The  few 
soldiers  on  guard,  after  a  shot  or  two,  threw  down 
their  arms,  and  Allen  strode  to  the  quarters  of  Dela- 
place,  the  commandant.  As  he  reached  the  door 
Delaplace  appeared  in  his  night  garments  and  listened 
in  amazement  to  the  demand  for  the  surrender  of  the 
fort. 

"  By  what  authority  ?  "  asked  the  startled  Briton. 

"In  the  name  of  the  great  Jehovah  and  the  Conti- 
nental Congress,"  was  Allen's  reply. 

The  assault  was  entirely  unexpected,  the  surprise 
was  complete,  and  the  valuable  fortress,  with  its  large 
equipment  of  cannon  and  ammunition,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  Americans  at  a  very  opportune  time. 


68  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

Within  the  next  two  years  they  made  Ticonderoga  a 
stronghold  that  they  thought  well-nigh  impregnable. 
They  threw  up  numerous  outlying  defences,  erected 
Fort  Independence  on  the  bluffs  across  the  lake  and 
connected  the  two  forts  with  a  sunken  bridge.  One 
of  the  great  logs  of  this  bridge  was  not  long  ago 
detached  and  brought  to  the  shore,  and  an  old  farmer 
with  whom  I  talked  told  me  he  had  a  portion  of  it  at 
his  house. 

"  Some  say  wood  in  the  water'll  rot,"  said  he,  "  but 
it  won't.  You  keep  wood  in  the  water  all  the  time,  or 
you  keep  it  perfectly  dry  all  the  time,  and  it'll  last  for- 
ever. It's  wet  and  dry  raises  the  mischief.  This  log 
that  they  pulled  up  had  lain  there  and  never  seen  the 
air  in  more  than  a  hundred  years,  and  it  was  as  sound 
as  a  Spanish  milled  dollar." 

In  spite  of  all  the  Americans  did  in  strengthening 
Ticonderoga,  it  failed  them  at  a  most  critical  time ;  for 
when  Burgoyne  reached  it  on  his  famous  invasion,  they 
were  obliged  to  ingloriously  abandon  their  elaborately 
prepared  defences  without  a  shot.  To  the  southwest, 
on  the  other  side  of  Ticonderoga  Creek,  or  "Ti  Crick," 
as  it  is  called  locally,  rise  the  steep  wooded  sides  of 
Mt.  Defiance.  The  Americans  had  fancied  the 
height  was  one  which  could  not  be  scaled  with  cannon, 
and  when  the  British  accomplished  this,  Ticonderoga 
was  at  their  mercy,  and  the  Americans  could  do  nothing 
but  get  out. 


A  Ruin  beside   Lake  Champlain  69 

However,  the  earlier  investment  of  the  place  by 
Ethan  Allen  is  the  better  recalled.  It  was  far  more 
dramatic  —  "And  yet,"  commented  the  old  farmer 
whom  I  have  previously  quoted,  "  nothing  was  ever 
more  foolhardy.  Allen  was  completely  in  the  power 
of  the  British.  He  played  'em  a  trick  and  the  trick 
worked.  It  was  just  luck.  If  he  hadn't  succeeded, 
we'd  all  say  what  a  crazy  notion  it  was.  Same  way 
with  Funston  capturing  Aguinaldo  out  in  the  Philip- 
pines. He  come  out  all  right,  but  it  was  chance  just 
the  same,  and  it'd  been  a  foolish  business  if  he'd 
failed." 


The  Pasture  in  which  stand  the  Old  Fortifications 


SIAIE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 

UOS  HJiGHliES,  CRIt. 


IV 


IN    THE    ADIRONDACK^ 


I 


'LL  be  ready  in 
a  minute,"  said 
the  stage  -  coach 
driver,  and  then  he 
spent  half  an  hour 
stowing  away  a  vast 
cargo  of  boxes,  bar- 
rels, and  other  mis- 
cellany in  his  rusty, 
canopy  -  topped  vehi- 
cle. So  little  spare 
space  was  left  I  was 
thankful, that  I  was  the 
only  passenger.  I  had 
just  alighted  from  a 
train  at  a  little  station 
among  the  outlying 
foot-hills  of  the  mountains,  and  my  destination  was  an 
inland  valley.  When  the  driver  climbed  in  and  took 
up  his  reins  to  start,  I  called  his  attention  to  several 

70 


A  Fisherman 


In  the  Adirondacks  71 

great  piles  of  hemlock  bark  near  by  awaiting  transfer 
to  some  tannery. 

"  Those  piles  ain't  nothin'  to  what  we  used  to  see," 
was  my  companion's  comment.  "  Our  timber  lands 
are  growin'  poorer  all  the  time,  and  hemlock  bark's 
gittin'  more  skurce  every  year.  We're  cuttin'  off 
everythin'  we  c'n  git  a  cent  for  —  that's  the  trouble." 

From  what  the  driver  said  and  all  I  had  heard  of 
lumbering  in  the  Adirondacks  I  expected  to  find  the 
mountains  much  denuded,  but  to  my  eyes  they  seemcu 
still  heavily  timbered.  Yet  most  of  the  finest  trees 
have  undoubtedly  been  felled,  and  the  ancient  primeval 
majesty  of  the  forest  is  departed  forever. 

We  had  not  gone  far  on  our  road  when  the  driver 
pointed  with  his  whip  toward  a  high  mountain  slope 
across  which  there  was  a  drift  of  yellow  smoke.  "  By 
gol,  look  a'  that !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Thar's  a  fire  up  in 
thar,  and  it's  started  since  I  went  down  an  hour  ago. 
But  it's  too  early  in  the  season  for  it  to  burn  good. 
The  woods  ain't  dry  yit.  Last  summer  we  fit  fires 
stiddy  for  a  month,  and  the  fire  wardens  got  out  every 
one  they  could  git.  Sometimes  thar'd  be  a  hundred 
men  workin'  on  the  same  mountain.  We  carried 
shovels  and  dug  trenches.  You  see  the  top  o'  the 
ground  was  dry  several  inches  deep,  and  would  burn 
off.  We'd  dig  down  to  whar  it  was  damp,  and  when 
the  fire  got  to  the  ditch  we'd  made  it  would  usually 
stop ;  but  if  thar  was  a  stick  lay  across,  or  a  dead  tree 


72  New  England  and   its  Neighbors 

got  to  burnin'  and  fell  over  the  line,  the  fire  would  start 
again  and  we'd  have  to  trench  around  it  once  more.  It 
ain't  a  job  I  like  —  fightin'  fire  —  with  all  the  smoke 
and  climbin'  and  the  diggin'.  Sometimes  I've  been 
surrounded  by  the  fire  and  had  to  break  a  way  out 
through  the  flames.  You  have  to  look  out  for  that." 

"  How  do  the  fires  start?  "  I  asked. 

"  We  don't  often  find  out  for  certain,  but  thar's  a 
lot  o'  fire  bugs  in  the  mountains.  They're  sore  over 
the  game  laws,  or  they  start  a  fire  so's  to  earn  some 
money  puttin'  of  it  out.  The  pay's  high  enough  to 
make  that  quite  an  inducement.  We  git  two  dollars 
a  day.  The  state  pays  half  and  the  town  half;  and 
you  never  can  tell  when  you  git  a  lot  of  men  out 
whether  they're  workin'  or  not.  Some  of  'em  just 
lie  around  drunk.  Last  year's  fire  ran  over  those 
ridges  on  ahead  thar.  You  c'n  see  whar  it's  burnt, 
can't  you  ?  " 

Yes,  I  could  see  long  stretches  of  the  upper  moun- 
tains that  seemed  to  be  a  charred  desolation  of  black 
earth  and  gaunt,  dead  trees.  It  looked  as  if  the  green 
would  never  return. 

"  OfF  on  those  higher  mountains  are  white  patches 
that  appear  to  be  snow,"  I  remarked  presently. 

"  I  do'  know  but  they  are.  More  likely,  though, 
they're  bare  rocks  and  the  sun  glistenin'  on  water 
that's  runnin'  down  over  'em.  Still,  thar's  snow  in 
some  of  the  high  hollows  most  all  summer.  We've 


In  the  Adirondacks  73 

got  what  they  call  an  ice  cave  in  the  town  whar  I  live, 
and  every  Fourth  of  July  regular  the  young  folks  go 
up  to  it  and  have  some  fun  snowballing.  Thar'll  be 
plenty  of  snow  thar  next  Fourth  if  we  c'n  judge  any- 
thing by  the  winter  we've  had.  Worst  winter  for 
snow't  I  c'n  remember.  It  begun  in  November  with 
a  three-foot  storm  that  caught  us  all  unexpected.  I'd 
been  ploughing  the  day  before,  and  it  buried  my  plough 
out  of  sight.  I  had  to  go  and  dig  the  plough  out  of  a 
drift  that  was  higher' n  my  head.  For  five  days  we  was 
cut  off  from  the  mail  and  everything  else.  Dozens  of 
weak  roofs  was  broken  in  —  mostly  of  sheds,  piazzas, 
and  barns,  but  sometimes  of  houses.  After  that  storm 
we  never  had  any  let-up.  The  snow  kept  comin'  and 
gittin'  deeper  all  winter.  Thar  was  too  much  for  good 
sleighin'  and  too  much  for  loggin'  in  the  woods  ;  but 
it  went  fast  as  soon  as  the  sun  begun  to  warm  up  about 
the  first  of  April." 

We  were  now  going  through  a  narrow  pass  between 
two  mountains,  and  I  mentioned  the  wildness  of  the 
spot  to  the  driver.  "  Yes,  it  is  kind  o'  wild,"  said  he, 
"  that's  a  fact.  This  is  a  great  runway  for  bears  across 
here.  They've  got  a  den  back  on  one  o'  the  ridges 
not  fur  away.  You  find  their  tracks  in  the  road 
often,  and  about  a  year  ago  this  time  as  I  was  walkin' 
my  horses  up  the  hill  we're  comin'  to  I  see  a  bear  — 
an  old  big  fellow  —  large  as  a  cow  —  diggin'  out  mice 
at  the  foot  of  a  rotten  stump.  But  they  keep  out  o' 


74  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

the  way  and  don't  often  show  themselves.  Lot's  o' 
people  that  have  lived  in  the  Adirondacks  all  their 
days  have  never  laid  eyes  on  a  live  wild  bear.  Do 
you  know  Len  Hoskins?  He's  a  hunter  and  guide, 
and  he's  got  a  little  place  off  in  the  woods  where  he 
stays  a  good  share  o'  the  time.  He  sees  bears  every 
year.  He  routed  out  one  bear  right  in  the  middle  of 
winter.  'Twa'n't  nothin'  strange.  The  bears  don't 
hide  away  in  the  rocks  as  you  might  think.  Rocks  are 
too  cold.  They  like  to  crawl  into  some  hollow,  or  a 
narrow  place  between  two  fallen  trees  and  let  the  snow 
drift  over  'em.  This  bear  of  Len's  had  put  up  not  so 
very  far  from  a  wood  road,  and  Len  was  goin'  along 
and  his  dog  was  with  him,  and  the  dog  run  off  among 
the  trees  and  begun  to  bark  and  paw  the  snow.  Len 
saw't  he'd  struck  some  game,  and  he  sicked  the  dog  on, 
and  first  thing  he  knew  a  bear  rose  up  out  of  the  snow. 
The  bear  got  the  dog,  but  Len,  he  had  his  gun,  and  he 
got  the  bear. 

"  I  had  a  little  adventure  myself  one  time  when  I 
was  spending  a  few  days  with  Len.  He  had  some 
bear  traps  out  and  one  o'  the  animiles  got  caught.  It 
was  a  little  year-old  cub,  and  I  expect  it  had  been  in 
the  trap  for  at  least  two  days  when  we  found  it.  The 
trap  had  broke  the  bear's  leg,  and  it  had  got  out  and 
left  its  leg  behind,  but  it  couldn't  go  far.  We'd  been 
out  pickin'  berries  and  hadn't  nothing  except  our  jack- 
knives  and  a  couple  of  long  sticks  we'd  cut  for  canes, 


In  the  Adirondacks  75 

and  we'd  'a'  let  the  bear  alone  if  we'd  thought  we  was 
goin'  to  have  any  trouble.  That  little  beast  was  ter- 
rible spunky,  if  it  didn't  have  but  three  legs,  and  soon 
as  it  see  'twa'n't  no  use  tryin'  to  git  away  it  showed 
fight.  First  it  would  go  for  Len  and  I'd  whack  it 
with  my  stick,  and  then  it  would  turn  on  me  and  Len 
would  git  in  a  whack.  We  had  a  fifteen  minutes'  tussle, 
and  I  worked  harder  and  sweat  more  than  I  ever  have 
in  that  length  of  time  before  or  since.  But  at  last  we 
killed  the  critter  and  slung  him  on  a  pole  and  carried 
him  to  camp.  We  had  bear  steak  for  a  while  then, 
and  I  called  it  better'n  venison." 

"  Do  the  bears  ever  trouble  the  farmers  any  ? "  I 
inquired. 

"  No,  they  don't  do  much  damage.  I  did  some 
think  they  got  six  sheep  o'  mine  a  few  years  ago,  but 
I  guess  those  bears  didn't  have  more'n  two  legs.  Thar 
wa'n't  the  least  sign  o'  the  sheep  to  be  found  nowhar, 
and  a  bear  always  leaves  the  hide,  if  nothin'  more.  It's 
torn  some,  but  it's  cleaned  out  a  good  sight  cleaner 
than  you  could  git  it  with  a  knife.  The  deer  do  the 
most  harm.  They'll  git  over  the  best  fence  we  got, 
and  the  back  lots  next  to  the  woods  ain't  never  safe 
from  'em.  They  spoil  more'n  a  little  grain  for  us,  and 
they're  gittin'  worse,  too.  The  law  don't  allow  hunt- 
ing of 'em  with  hounds  now,  and  they  ain't  so  timid  as 
they  was,  and  they're  increasin'.  But  thar's  too  many 
hunters  for  'em  ever  to  git  very  numerous." 


j6  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  stage  reached 
the  end  of  its  route,  and  I  continued  farther  into  the 
mountains  on  foot.  Most  of  the  way  the  road  led 
through  the  woodland  up  a  valley,  and  had  close 
beside  it  a  swift,  noisy  stream.  The  forest  was  charm- 
ing with  the  emerald  and  tawny  tints  of  spring,  and  was 
musical  with  bird  songs.  As  for  the  walking,  it  might 
have  been  better.  Sturdy  rocks  humped  up  out  of  the 
earth  at  intervals  in  the  very  centre  of  the  highway, 
there  were  often  muddy  shallows  in  the  low  spots  fed 
by  little  rivulets  that  trickled  down  the  wheel  tracks, 
and  not  infrequently  I  encountered  boggy  places 
which  had  been  filled  in  with  brush  and  corduroy. 
The  corduroy  was  not,  however,  of  a  very  strenuous 
type  —  not  much  more  than  saplings.  You  would 
have  to  search  far  now  to  find  the  genuine  article,  but 
it  used  to  be  common  in  the  Adirondacks,  wherever 
the  road  inclined  to  be  soft.  Ordinarily  it  consisted 
of  substantial  sticks  about  six  inches  in  diameter,  but 
which  might  be  as  much  as  ten.  In  any  case  they 
would  fairly  make  one's  teeth  rattle  to  drive  over 
them. 

Along  the  road  I  was  travelling  were  occasional 
meadow  openings  occupied  by  a  house  or  two,  or  per- 
haps several  of  them ;  and  in  the  fields  near  these 
houses  I  was  pretty  apt  to  see  men  and  boys  busy 
ploughing  and  planting.  The  land  in  the  clearings 
was  for  the  most  part  steep  and  broken,  and  the 


AN  ADIRONDACK  FARMER 


In  the  Adirondacks  77 

soil  so  stony  that  the  progress  of  a  man  ploughing 
was  very  jerky  and  uncertain.  He  was  constantly 
striking,  not  only  loose  stones  of  all  sizes,  but  heavy 
boulders  that  brought  him  to  frequent  sudden  stops. 
Then  he  had  to  pull  and  haul  to  get  ready  for  a  fresh 
start. 

Wherever  I  went  during  my  Adirondack  stay  the 
houses  were  small  and  usually  unpainted.  The 
barns  were  likewise  meagre  and  rusty,  and  though 
the  storage  room  they  afforded  was  likely  to  be  eked 
out  by  a  number  of  sheds  and  lean-tos,  it  never  seemed 
to  be  equal  to  demands.  A  very  common  arrange- 
ment of  the  house  buildings  was  to  have  the  barns 
just  across  the  road  from  the  house.  If  such  were  the 
case,  the  manure  heaps  were  very  likely  thrown  out  of 
the  stable  windows  on  the  houseward  side  in  conspic- 
uous view.  This  was  simply  a  matter  of  barbaric 
convenience,  and  was  formerly  customary  in  all  our 
older  farming  regions. 

The  Adirondack  sheds  and  barns  were  often  of  logs  ; 
but  the  era  of  log  construction  is  past,  and  buildings  of 
this  kind  are  becoming  rarer  every  year.  The  majority 
of  the  log  dwellings  that  still  remain  have  been  added 
to  and  improved  past  recognition,  and  the  rudeness  of 
those  that  continue  as  originally  built  is  a  constant 
distress  if  their  caretakers  have  any  pride.  The  logs 
used  are  hewed  off  a  little  on  each  face,  so  that  they 
are  halfway  between  round  and  square,  and  the  chinks 


78  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

are  stopped  with  plaster.  Such  houses  are  considered 
warmer  in  winter  than  frame  buildings ;  but  the  floors 
are  uneven,  the  log  sills  of  the  second  story  are  exposed, 
and  the  walls  inside  and  out  are  alternating  ridges  and 
hollows.  If  the  rooms  are  papered,  the  roughness  of 
the  walls  is  still  apparent,  and  the  paper  is  sure  to  crack 
badly  and  peel  off  in  spite  of  all  that  can  be  done. 

One  of  the  Adirondack  days  I  remember  with 
especial  pleasure  was  a  certain  lowery  Friday.  In  the 
afternoon  I  was  caught  by  a  shower  that  came  charg- 
ing with  its  mists  down  a  mountain  glen.  I  hastened 
along  the  forest  road  while  the  drops  played  a  tattoo 
on  the  leaves  overhead,  until  I  reached  a  roadside 
house  where  I  sought  shelter  in  a  woodshed  with  an 
open  front.  This  shed  was  in  the  ell  of  a  house 
adjoining  the  kitchen,  and  was  used  in  part  as  a  back 
room. .  The  far  side  was  stowed  full  of  neatly  piled 
split  wood,  but  in  the  other  half  were  pots  and  kettles 
and  pails,  a  swill  barrel,  and  a  rusty  stove.  I  asked  a 
woman  at  work  in  the  kitchen  for  a  drink  of  water ; 
and  she  brought  out  a  chair  for  me,  and  stepped  across 
the  yard  and  filled  a  dipper  at  a  tub  set  in  the  ground. 
This  tub  was  connected  with  a  spring  up  the  hill,  the 
woman  said ;  but,  though  springs  were  abundant,  very 
few  of  the  neighbors  had  running  water.  They  were 
deterred  by  the  expense  of  buying  pipe,  and  got  along 
with  wells.  From  these  they  as  a  rule  drew  the  water 
by  means  of  some  old-fashioned  windlass  contrivance, 


In  the  Adirondacks  79 

or  a  pole  with  a  hook  on  the  end,  or  an  antiquated 
well-sweep. 

I  had  not  been  long  in  the  shed  where  I  had  taken 
refuge  when  a  small  boy  in  a  big  straw  hat  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  He  carried  a  fish- 
pole  and  a  tin  box.  He  had  been  fishing  for  trout,  he 
said,  but  had  caught  chubs. 

"  Do  you  always  fish  for  trout  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  do  you  ever  catch  any  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  acknowledged  despondently,  "just 
chubs.  I  put  'em  in  this  box.  It's  full  of  water." 

He  took  off  the  cover  and  showed  me  several  tiny 
fish  swimming  about  within. 

"Are  they  good  to  eat?"  I  inquired. 

"  No,  they're  only  good  to  kill,"  he  responded  with 
frank  innocence  of  his  savagery. 

Now  his  mother  called  to  him.  "  Willie,"  she  said, 
"  I  wish  you  would  bring  in  some  wood  before  it  rains 
any  harder  —  that  wood  outdoors,  you  know,  that  we 
didn't  have  room  for  in  the  shed." 

The  boy  went  lingeringly  toward  the  remnants  of  a 
pile  in  the  yard.  "  It's  thunderin',  mamma,"  said  he. 

"  You'd  better  hurry,  then." 
.  "  Sounds  like  tumblin'  down  stones." 

"  Hurry  up  !  " 

"  Mamma,  there's  a  hawk  !" 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  !  " 


8o 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


"  It's  a  chicken- 
hawk,  I  guess ! 
Come  aout  and  see 
it.  It'll  get  those 
little  chickens  of 
ourn." 

"  Don't  stan'out 
there  hollerin'  any 
longer  —  bring  in 
the  wood." 

But  the  boy  had 
slipped  away  be- 
hind the  house,  and 
a  few  moments 
later  he  reappeared 
with  his  father, 
whom  he  had  sum- 
moned from  the 
cornfield. 

"  Let    me    have 

Shelling  Seed  Corn  my  gun  I  "  the  man 

called  to  his  wife,  with  his  eyes  turned  skyward  toward 
the  hawk,  and  the  woman  handed  it  out  to  him.  He 
clicked  a  cartridge  into  the  muzzle  and  aimed  at  the 
soaring  bird.  But  he  did  not  fire.  "  Too  high  up," 
said  he,  lowering  the  gun  and  passing  it  back  to  his  wife. 
"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  I  guess  I'll  shell  some  seed 
corn,  and  then  if  it  keeps  on  rainin'  I'll  go  fishin'." 


In  the  Adirondacks  81 

"  Do  you  go  fishing  every  time  it  rains  ? "  I 
queried. 

"  No,  but  I'm  pretty  apt  to.  The  fish  bite  better 
in  drizzlin'  weather." 

He  did  not  go  this  time,  for  he  had  hardly  got  his 
corn  and  sat  down  in  the  shed  to  shell  it,  using  his 
hands  and  a  cob,  when  the  sun  began  to  glint  through 
the  flying  drops  and  to  brighten  the  green,  watery  land- 
scape. "  Hello  !  "  said  the  man,  "  '  Rain  and  shine 
to-day,  rain  to-morrer.'  That's  the  old  saying,  but 
I'd  like  to  have  it  pleasant  for  about  a  week  so  I  could 
finish  up  planting." 

As  soon  as  the  shower  was  over  I  resumed  my 
rambling,  and  the  tumbled  ridges  of  the  Adirondacks 
never  loomed  finer  than  they  did  then,  veiled  in  the 
moist  haze  that  succeeded  the  rain,  with  here  and 
there  a  filmy  cloud  floating  across  the  loftier  heights. 
Wherever  I  obtained  an  extended  view,  the  mountains 
looked  mighty  and  magnificent  enough  to  satisfy  their 
most  ardent  admirers.  I  plodded  along  the  muddy 
roadway,  sometimes  in  the  dripping  woods,  sometimes 
amid  little  house  clearings.  Toward  evening  I  met  a 
small  drove  of  cows  coming  home  from  pasture  in 
charge  of  a  woman,  the  whole  making  a  delightfully 
idyllic  bit  of  life  there  on  the  quiet  of  the  secluded 
forest  way,  with  a  murmuring  stream  close  at  hand  and 
the  tink,  tink  of  the  bell  on  the  leading  cow's  neck 
adding  its  musical,  rustic  accompaniment.  A  little 


82 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


later  I  came  to  a  house  with  a  pasture  just  across  the 
road,  and  in  the  pasture  a  lad  milking.  The  boy  said 
most  people  drove  their  cows  into  the  barnyard  to 


Bringing  in  the  Cows  after  their  Day's  Grazing 

milk  them,  but  his  folks  always  milked  them  there  at 
the  pasture  bars  in  summer.  I  had  stopped  to  ask  if 
I  could  get  kept  over  night  at  some  place  near,  and  he 
sent  me  to  the  next  house  up  the  hill  —  Mr.  Macey's. 


In  the  Adirondacks  83 

One  never  has  much  trouble  in  getting  lodged  in 
the  Adirondacks.  The  wayfarer  can  find  accommoda- 
tion at  almost  any  home  where  he  chooses  to  stop,  and 
the  standard  price  is  fifty  cents  for  a  room  with  supper 
and  breakfast.  The  house  1  sought  was  a  little  brown 
dwelling  on  a  slope  overlooking  a  vast  sweep  of  valley 
and  dim  mountains.  Mr.  Macey  was  standing  in  the 
yard  smoking  his  pipe  when  I  approached  —  a  thin, 
gray  man  of  rather  more  than  threescore  years.  In 
response  to  my  question  as  to  whether  I  could  stay  for 
the  night  he  leisurely  removed  his  pipe  and  said : 
"  You'll  find  my  wife  and  daughter  in  the  house  thar. 
It's  the  women  folks  that  do  the  work.  All  I  do  is 
the  eatin'.  You  c'n  talk  with  them." 

A  stout,  elderly  woman  appeared  at  the  kitchen 
door  just  then,  set  two  pails  ot  milk  out  on  the  piazza, 
and  asked  rather  sharply,  "Why  don't  you  feed  this  to 
the  calves  as  you  was  goin'  to  an  hour  ago  ?  " 

The  old  man  stepped  over  to  the  piazza  and  took 
the  pails  with  an  alacrity  that  betokened  a  smitten  con- 
science. At  the  same  time  I  went  to  the  door  and 
proffered  my  request  for  lodging. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  convenient  to-night,"  replied  Mrs. 
Macey.  "  We're  goin'  to  keep  a  spectacle  pedler 
that  came  along  before  supper,  and  it  wouldn't  be 
convenient  to  take  any  one  else." 

I  was  turning  away  when  I  was  met  by  one  ot  the 
sons  of  the  family  coming  across  the  yard  from  the 


84  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

barn  with  the  pedler  of  spectacles.  "  What's  the 
matter  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Where  you  goin*  ?  Can't  get 
kept?  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  why!  See  here!"  he 
continued,  turning  to  his  companion,  "  you're  used  to 
sleepin'  three  in  a  bed,  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sure,  six  !  " 

"  Do  you  kick  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  give  you  fair  warnin'  I'm  a  snorer." 

"  That's  all  right.  You  just  as  soon  bunk  in  with 
this  man,  hadn't  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes  !     If  he's  satisfied,  I  am." 

So  it  was  settled  and  I  stayed.  The  house  proved 
to  be  of  logs,  but  these  had  been  clapboarded  over,  and 
the  real  construction  was  not  revealed  until  I  went 
inside.  There  I  found  the  logs  very  apparent,  though 
partially  hidden  by  a  covering  of  wall-paper.  Over- 
head was  the  flooring  of  the  rooms  upstairs,  with  the 
long  sagging  logs  that  served  for  joists  incrusted  with 
many  coatings  of  whitewash. 

While  I  sat  at  supper  eating  alone,  for  I  was  late 
and  the  others  had  finished,  Mr.  Macey  came  into  the 
back  room.  "  I  been  talkin'  with  that  spectacle  man," 
he  remarked  to  his  wife,  "  and  he's  a  plaguey  nice  fel- 
ler, I'll  bet  ye." 

"  Well,  you  be  careful  then  he  don't  sell  you  nothin' 
you  don't  want,"  was  Mrs.  Macey's  comment,  as  she 
came  in  to  the  supper  table  with  a  plate  of  cake.  The 
dog  followed  her.  "  Here,  get  out  of  here,"  she  com- 


In  the  Adirondacks  85 

manded,  taking  up  a  piece  of  bread  and  throwing  it  out 
into  the  back  room. 

Mr.  Macey  had  entered  the  dining  room  and  was 
standing  by  the  stove  opening  his  jack-knife.  "  That's 
a  good  dog,"  he  said  to  me,  "  if  he  does  get  in  the 


Picking  up  Chips 

way  once  in  a  while.  He  ain't  never  barking  and 
snapping  at  people.  I'd  as  lieve  a  man's  children 
would  come  out  and  throw  stones  at  me  as  to  have  his 
dog  run  out  and  bark  at  me  every  time  I  go  past." 

Mr.  Macey  now  took  up  a  stick  and  began  to  whittle 
shavings.      He  did  not  sever  them  from  the  stick,  but 


86  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

left  them  fast  at  one  end.  When  he  had  bristled  up 
the  stick  to  his  satisfaction,  he  laid  it  down,  and  took 
up  another  which  he  treated  in  like  manner. 

"What  are  you  making?"  I  inquired. 

"  Kindlings.  You  see  you  touch  a  match  to  the 
ends  o'  them  shavings  and  it'll  start  up  a  good  blaze 
right  off.  Whittling  kindlings  is  a  job  I  do  every 
night.  I  have  to  have  two  or  three  sticks  fixed  for 
this  stove,  and  two  or  three  tor  the  back-room  stove. 
I'm  usin'  cedar  wood  from  some  old  fence  posts  at 
present,  but  I  like  pine  better  when  we  can  git  it." 

After  I  finished  eating  I  visited  the  barn,  where  I 
found  Mr.  Macey's  two  sons,  Geoffry  and  "  Ted," 
milking.  They  were  lively,  capable  fellows  about 
eighteen  or  twenty  years  of  age.  I  was  just  in  time  to 
see  Ted  get  into  trouble  with  his  cow.  The  creature 
put  her  foot  in  his  pail,  and  he  jumped  up,  fierce  with 
wrath,  and  banged  her  with  his  stool,  and  called  her 
slab-sided,  and  went  on  to  blast  her  with  as  wild  and 
sulphurous  a  string  of  invectives  as  I  have  ever  heard. 
But  the  milking  was  nearly  done,  and  the  boys  soon 
went  to  the  house.  The  family  presently  got  together 
in  the  dining  room,  which  also  served  as  a  sitting  room 
and  to  some  extent  as  a  kitchen,  and  the  spectacles 
pedler  and  I  "  made  ourselves  at  home  "  with  them. 

"  If  I  had  such  a  cow  as. that  red  and  yellow  one  I'd 
sell  her,"  Ted  remarked  to  his  father  with  great  disgust. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 


In   the   Adirondacks 


87 


"  She's  got  altogether  too  contrary  a  disposition. 
You  can't  make  her  stand  still." 

"  She'll  stand  still   as  a  mouse  when   J  milk  her." 

"  These  are  the  easiest  galluses  ever  I  wore,"  inter- 
rupted Geoffry,  giving  a  hitch  to  his  suspenders  ;  "  but 
they  feel  darn  funny  when  the  buttons  are  off." 

"  They're  made  o'  leather,  ain't  they  ?  "  asked  the 
spectacles  pedler. 

"  Yes,"  Geoffry  replied,  "  I  had  'em  built  special  at 
the  harness-maker's.  Come,  Ted,  sew  on  this  button, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  sew  it  on,"  said  his  mother. 

"  No  you  won't,  ma.  You've  done  enough  to-day. 
I'd  sew  it  on  myself  if  it  wa'n't  around  back  of  me." 

Ted  was  willing  enough  and  seated  himself  behind 
his  brother  and  got  to  work,  at  the  same  time  men- 
tioniftg  to  his  sister  that  he  wished  to  goodness  she'd 
make  some  pie-plant  pie.  "  I  was  looking  in  the  garden 
this  afternoon,"  he  went  on,  "and  the  pie-plant's 
gettin'  good  and  big." 

"  Oh,  gee,  Ted  !  why  don't  you  say  rhubarb  ?  " 
Molly  commented.  "  If  you  was  ever  to  take  dinner 
at  a  restaurant  in  the  city,  and  ask  for  pie-plant  pie, 
they  wouldn't  know  what  you  m.:ant.  They'd  think 
you  never  had  been  out  of  the  woods  before." 

"That  wouldn't  be  anything  much,"  declared  Mr. 
Macey.  "  There's  people  here  in  this  town  that  nev- 
er've  been  outside  the  county  —  men  older'n  I  am." 


88  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

"  There's  some  people  in  this  town  too  smart  for 
the  clothes  they  wear,  I  know  that !  "  affirmed  Geoffry, 
severely. 

"  I'll  warrant  you  there  are  !  "  exclaimed  the  pedler 
of  spectacles.  "  Some  in  my  town  too." 

"  I  know  a  girl,"  said  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
"who's  never  seen  a  train  of  cars  in  her  life,  and  she's 
twenty-two  years  old." 

"  I  jolly  !  "  said  the  spectacles  man,  "  if  I  was  one  o' 
you  boys,  I'd  hitch  up  and  take  that  girl  down  to  see 
the  cars  right  off." 

"  Oh,  thunder  !  you  don't  know  the  girl,"  snorted 
Geoffry,  "  or  you  wouldn't  be  so  sure.  She'd  talk  you 
to  death.  It's  nineteen  miles  to  the  railroad  and  nine- 
teen back." 

"  It's  more  than  that,  my  kind  little  friend,"  said 
Ted,  and  then  the  two  brothers  entered  into  a  dispute 
to  settle  the  exact  distance. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Macey  had  got  out  his  pipe  and 
was  filling  it.  "  I  hain't  been  everywhere,"  he  re- 
marked, "  but  I'd  be  ashamed  o'  myself  if  I  hadn't 
never  seen  a  train  o'  cars." 

"Say,  mister,  you  would,  wouldn't  you?"  was  the 
pedler's  comment. 

"  Well,  a  man  that's  more  curious  to  me  than  any- 
one else  around  here,"  began  Geoffry,  "  is  a  fellow  I 
know  of  who  gets  his  living  by  sitting  in  his  chair  and 
making  ashes,  and  he's  got  a  large^  family  to  support. 


THE  KITCHEN  DOOR  OF  A  LOG  HOUSE 


In  the  Adirondacks  89 

Making  ashes  is  about  all    I've  ever  seen   him  do  — 
just  smoking,  you  know.      I've  offered  to  give  him  a 
cow  for  the  receipt  of  how  to  live  without  doing  noth- 
ing.     He  ain't  got  no  cow,  and  he  needs  one  bad,  but 
he  won't  sell  me  the  receipt." 

"  He's  got  a  horse,"  said  Ted. 

"  Yes,  but  what's  that  horse  o'  his'n  good  for  ? " 
queried  Mr.  Macey.  "  He  keeps  it  just  for  swapping. 
He'd  spend  all  his  time  swapping  horses  if  he  could 
find  any  one  to  swap  with,  specially  when  he  sees  a 
chance  o'  gittin'  something  to  boot.  If  he  c'n  git 
a  dollar  to  boot,  it  don't  matter  what  sort  of  a  horse  he 
gits  ;  and  there's  times  he'll  only  git  a  rooster  or  a 
dozen  eggs.  Then,  again,  he  maybe  has  to  pay  boot. 
But  I  c'n  say  one  thing  for  him  —  he'd  starve  before 
he'd  steal." 

"  Pete  Foster's  laid  up  yet  with  his  sprained  ankle," 

remarked    Geoffry,  changing  the  subject.     "  He  says 

he  wishes  it  had  been   a  broken   bone.     Thinks  if  it 

had  been,  he  could  'a'  ordered  a  new  one  and  got  it  here 

.by  this  time,  and  been  out  and  around." 

"  What'd  he  say  about  that  two-shillin'  hen  he 
bought?"  inquired  Ted.  "He's  tellin'  everybody 
that  now." 

"  Oh,  he  said  he  bought  the  hen,  and  the  idea  struck 
him  he'd  have  it  to  eat,  seein'  he  was  kind  of  an  invalid 
at  present.  So  he  got  the  hen  ready  for  the  kittle,  and 
his  wife  set  up  all  night  and  boiled  it,  She  didn't 


90  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

seem  to  make  much  progress  in  cookin'  it  tender,  so 
they  boiled  it  all  day,  and  'twa'n't  done  then,  and  Pete 
he  set  up  all  that  night  to  keep  it  boilin',  and  the  next 
morning,  he  tried  it  again,  and  it  was  so  tough  he 
couldn't  stick  a  fork  into  the  water  it  had  been  boilin' 
in." 

"  Pete's  kep'  pretty  straight  sence  he  took  the  Kee- 
ley  cure,  hain't  he  ?  "  Mr.  Macey  interrogated. 

"  Yes ;  he  won't  even  eat  mince  pie  that's  got  cider 
in  it." 

"  Do  many  take  the  Keeley  cure  here  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Oh,  land,  yes,  lots  of  'em  ;  and  some  come  back 
and  go  right  to  drinkin'  again  ;  and  then  perhaps 
they'll  take  the  cure  a  second  time  and  pay  the  hundred- 
dollar  fee  twice  over  and  still  drink.  But  with  a  good 
many  it  really  makes  a  man  of  'em.  I've  known  fel- 
lers cured  that  beforehand  was  that  crazy  for  drink 
they'd  swallow  Jamaica  ginger  or  peppermint  essence, 
if  they  couldn't  get  anything  else." 

"  What  did  you  mean  awhile  ago  when  you  were 
telling  of  a  two-shilling  hen  ?  "  I  asked  Ted. 

"I  meant  it  cost  two  shillin's  —  two  York  shillin's 
—  same  as  twenty-five  cents.  Folks  speak  of  shillin's 
a  good  deal  round  here,  though  there  ain't  no  money 
of  that  denomination,  and  never  has  been  since  I  c'n 
remember.  Mostly  we  reckon  in  shillin's  when  we 
c'n  talk  about  a  single  shillin'  or  two  shillin's.  Some- 
times you  hear  four  shillin's  instead  of  fifty  cents,  and 


In  the  Adirondacks  91 

ten  shillin's  instead  of  a  dollar  and  a  quarter,  but  for 
the  rest  we  say  dollars  and  cents." 

"  At  the  house  where  I  had  dinner  this  noon,"  said 
I,  "  the  man  told  me  he  went  fishing  the  other  day 
and  put  six  flies  on  his  line,  and  he  hooked  three  fish 
at  once.  He  got  two  of  them,  and  the  smaller  one 
weighed  a  pound  and  the  other  weighed  two  pounds, 
and  the  one  that  broke  away  was  big  as  both  those  he 
caught  put  together." 

"  How'd  he  know  about  the  heft  of  the  one  that 
broke  away?"  queried  Mr.  Macey. 

"  He  didn't  explain  that  point,"  I  replied.  "  He 
said  he  caught  the  fish  in  the  river  down  in  the  valley 
below  here,  and  they  were  trout  from  California  that 
had  been  put  in  the  lake  up  above.  They  were  so 
gamey  he  couldn't  pull  them  out,  and  he  had  to  play 
them  and  use  a  net." 

"  I've  heard  about  their  putting  in  those  trout  there 
from  California  or  some  other  foreign  country,"  said 
Ted.  "  I  hooked  one  myself  down  in  the  holler  last 
summer  and  it  did  act  queer,  but  I  finally  treed  it  and 
got  it." 

"  What  was  the  man's  name  where  you  stayed  for 
dinner?  "  Mrs.  Macey  asked. 

"  Dickon." 

"  Dickon  !  "  ejaculated  GeofFry.  "  Well,  I  hope 
the  Lord  you  didn't  believe  all  lie  told  you  ! 

"  Did    you    have    Dutch    cheese    there  ? "    inquired 


92  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

Mr.  Macey.  "  They're  great  hands  for  Dutch  cheese 
at  Dickon's." 

"  They  had  it  on  the  table,"  I  answered,  "  but  it 
isn't  a  thing  I  care  for." 

"  Gosh,  I  do  !  I  wish  I  had  a  chunk  of  it  in  my 
paw  now.  I'd  lay  down  my  pipe  and  eat  it.  Where 
was  it  Dickon  said  they'd  put  in  those  trout  ? " 

"  He  said  in  the  lake." 

"  What  lake's  that,  I  wonder." 

"He  meant  the  pond,  father,"  Geoffry  explained. 
"  The  city  people  don't  like  ponds,  and  I  don't  believe 
there's  a  pond  left  in  the  Adirondacks  now.  Dickon 
drives  for  one  of  the  sporting-houses  in  the  summer, 
and  he's  caught  the  city  notion  of  giving  what  we've 
always  known  as  a  pond  a  more  tony  title." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  sporting-house  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  just  a  house  where  the  city  people  stay — a 
summer  hotel.  There's  one  sporting-house  in  this 
town  that'll  accommodate  three  hundred  people.  It's 
only  about  two  miles  from  here,  but  you  have  to  climb 
a  deuce  of  a  hill  to  get  to  it." 

"  We've  got  a  picture  of  it  somewhere,"  said  Mrs. 
Macey.  "  Won't  you  see  if  you  can  find  it,  Geoffry  ? 
and  perhaps  this  gentleman  would  like  to  look  at  that 
picture  of  our  house  we  had  taken  last  year." 

Geoffry  after  a  short  absence  brought  forth  the 
latter  from  the  next  room,  remarking  :  "  I  can't  find 


In  the  Adirondacks 


93 


the  sporting-house,  but  here's  this.      It  was  made  by 
some    men    that    came    along    in    a    photograph   cart. 


Sowing  Oats 

That's  my   mother  and   beloved  sister   sitting   out   in 
front   with    the   dog.       There   wa'n't    no    one    else   at 


94  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

home.  You  can  see  the  shingles  that  we'd  patched 
the  roof  with  where  it  had  been  leakin',  and  the  whole 
thing's  very  natural,  I  think." 

"  A  while  after  the  fellers  had  been  along  with  their 
cart,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  "  they  come  again  and  brought 
the  picture  all  finished  to  sell,  and  they  wanted  two 
dollars  for  it.  That  was  too  much.  I'd  a'  paid  a 
dollar  and  been  glad  to  ;  but  they  began  to  throw  off 
when  they  see  I  wouldn't  pay  their  price,  and  then  I 
didn't  know  what  the  thing  was  worth.  They  got 
down  to  fifty  cents  finally,  and  I  said  I'd  give  'em 
a  quarter.  They  said  the  lowest  they'd  take  was  half 
a  dollar.  So  after  a  while  they  started  off,  but  they 
hadn't  got  far  when  they  stopped  and  hollered  back 
for  me  to  get  my  quarter.  It  was  a  good  bargain,  I 
guess." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  commented  Molly.  "  What 
do  you  want  a  picture  of  your  own  house  for?  If  you 
want  to  see  your  house,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  go  out 
and  look  at  it." 

"  I'd  like  a  picture  of  some  of  the  houses  the  way 
they  was  when  I  was  a  boy,"  said  her  father  —  "log 
houses  with  stone  chimneys  outside  built  against 
the  ends.  In  the  kitchen  you'd  find  fireplaces  big 
enough  to  take  in  a  backlog  four  feet  long  and  two 
feet  through.  I'd  like  to  see  my  daughter  here  try 
to  get  a  meal  in  one  o'  those  fireplaces.  I  know  just 
how  my  mother  used  to  fry  flapjacks  —  she'd  stand 


In  the  Adirondacks  95 

there  front  o'  the  fire  with  her  long-handled  frying-pan, 
and  when  a  cake  was  done  on  one  side  she'd  give  a 
shake  to  loosen  it  r.nd  then  toss  it  up,  and  it  would 
come  down  on  the  other  side.  The  floors  were  of 
split  logs  hewed  off  flat.  The  kitchen'd  have  one 
or  two  bedrooms  opening  off  of  it,  and  up  above 
under  the  roof  there'd  be  a  long,  low  chamber  that 
you  went  up  to  by  a  ladder. 

"  My  wife,  here,  has  a  wool  wheel  yet,  and  spins 
her  own  yarn  and  some  to  sell ;  and  a  good  many  of 
the  older  women  in  the  Adirondacks  does  the  same. 
But  the  spinning  they  do  is  nothing  to  what  their 
mothers  did.  Besides  wool,  they  used  to  spin  flax, 
and  they  had  looms  and  wove  their  own  cloth,  and 
they  made  all  the  clothes  for  the  family.  I  c'n 
remember,  too,  how  in  the  winter  my  grandmother 
would  put  on  a  pair  of  men's  boots,  and  wade  through 
the  snow  to  the  barn  to  milk.  Some  women  still 
know  how  to  milk,  but  very  few  make  a  practice  of 
it.  I  tell  you,  them  old-time  women  did  a  lot  o'  work 
that  the  women  don't  do  these  days. 

"In  my  grandmother's  family  they  ate  off  pewter 
plates.  They  didn't  have  no  crockery,  and  when 
company  came  they'd  use  the  pewter  just  the  same, 
only  they'd  give  it  a  special  shinin'  first. 

"  My  mother  every  fall'd  make  up  twenty-five  or 
thirty  dozen  of  dipped  candles,  enough  to  last  till 
spring.  Candles  was  all  we  had  for  lightin'  the  house, 


96 


New   England  and  its  Neighbors 


and  we  had  to  use   'em,  too,  in  our  lanterns.     Them 
lanterns  was  tin,  like  a  tall1  four-quart  pot  all  pricked 


Spinning  Yarn  for  the  Family  Stockings 

full  of  holes,  and  the  holes  only  let  out  the  light  in 
little  slivers,  so't  if  you  wanted  to  see  anything  you 


In  the  Adirondacks 


97 


had  to  open  the  lantern  and  give  the  candle  a  chance. 
I  recollect  the  time  when  we  began  to  buy  lamps  for 
whale  oil,  and,  later,  what  they  called  fluid  lamps  — 
a  spindlin'  kind  of  a  glass  lamp  with  two  wicks  and 
little  brass  caps  to  go  over  the  ends  of  the  wicks  for 
extinguishers ;  and  then  finally  karosene  come  into 
use. 

"  When  I  was  a  boy  lots  o'  people  would  go  to 
church  in  ox-teams,  and  sometimes  a  man  would  go 
on  horseback  with  his  wife  settin'  behind  him.  We 
didn't  dress  up  as  much  then  for  church  as  we  do 
now.  I've  been  to  meetin'  barefoot,  many  a  time." 

My  attention  was  presently  attracted  from  Mr. 
Macey's  reminiscences  by  a  game  his  sons  had  started. 
They  said  they  were  playing  "  Bumblebee."  Ted 
had  his  fists  together,  thumbs  up,  with  a  light  stick 
poised  on  them.  GeorTry  was  moving  the  forefinger 
of  his  right  hand  around  the  end  of  the  stick  in  an 
erratic  manner,  sometimes  slowly,  sometimes  fast,  and 
dodging  this  way  and  that.  At  the  same  time  he 
made  a  variable  buzzing  sound  with  his  mouth. 
Suddenly  he  picked  up  the  stick  and  gave  his 
brother's  thumbs  a  smart  .rap.  "  There !  "  said  he, 
turning  to  the  rest  of  us,  "  the  bumblebee  stung 
him." 

% 

Ted  had  tried  to  part  his  fists  and  let  the  stick  pass 
harmlessly  between  them,  but  he  had  not  been  quick 
enough.  If  he  had  succeeded  he  could  have  been  the 


98  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

bumblebee  himsejf,  and  tried  to  sting  Geoffry.     The 
game  went  on  for  some  minutes,  and  then  Ted  turned 

O  ' 

to  me  and  asked  if  I  had  ever  played  "  Chipmunk." 

I  had  not,  and  the  brothers  proceeded  to  illustrate. 
Ted  got  down  on  all  fours,  facing  Geoffry,  and  the  latter, 
who  remained  seated,  spread  apart  his  legs  and  by  put- 
ting his  open  hands  just  inside  his  knees  made  a  kind 
of  human  trap.  Ted,  squeaking  and  chattering  in 
imitation  of  a  chipmunk,  dodged  his  head  this  way  and 
that  over  the  trap,  and  when  he  thought  there  was  a 
good  opportunity  bobbed  it  down  between  Geoffry 's 
legs,  while  Geoffry  attempted  to  make  a  capture  by 
thumping  his  knees  and  hands  together.  But  the  chip- 
munk had  escaped,  and  he  set  his  trap  again.  Ted,  this 
time  from  below,  went  on  chattering  and  making  feints 
to  confuse  Geoffry  until  he  fancied  he  could  safely  jerk 
his  head  back  up ;  and  when  Geoffry  really  did  grip 
Ted's  head  the  two  changed  places.  Long  before  they 
had  wearied  of  this  sport,  Mrs.  Macey,  who  had  retired, 
called  out  from  an  adjoining  room,  "  Boys,  do  stop  that 
noise  and  go  to  bed.  I  shan't  get  to  sleep  to-night  if 
you  keep  up  that  racket,"  and  this  brought  the  even- 
ing's sociability  to  a  close. 

In  the  morning  the  family  were  stirring  about  four 
o'clock,  and  by  breakfast  time,  at  half-past  five,  a  good 
start  had  been  made  on  the  day's  work.  Salt  pork  had 
chief  place  in  our  morning  bill  of  fare,  but  was  supple- 
mented by  boiled  eggs  and  pancakes  made  from  home- 


In  the  Adirondacks 


99 


A  Home  in  a  Valley 

grown  buckwheat.  As  soon  as  we  finished  eating,  the 
boys  turned  the  cows  and  sheep  out  to  pasture,  hitched 
a  pair  of  horses  to  a  wagon  and  drove  off  to  an  out- 
lying field  they  were  planting  to  potatoes.  The  spec- 
tacles pedler  lingered  a  short  time  in  an  attempt  to 
dispose  of  some  of  his  wares  and  then  resumed  his 
itinerant  journeying.  Mrs.  Macey  and  Molly  busied 
themselves  with  the  kitchen  work,  while  Mr.  Macey, 
after  doing  a  number  of  small  jobs  around  the  place,  sat 
down  on  the  piazza  to  cut  seed  potatoes.  The  best  of 
the  potatoes  he  sliced  into  a  bushel  basket,  the  small 
ones  he  put  in  a  pail  to  boil  for  the  pigs,  and  the  rot- 
ten ones  he  dropped  into  another  pail  to  throw  away. 


ioo  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

"When  I  was  a  youngster,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  "we 
used  to  begin  saving  the  seed  end  of  the  potatoes — that's 
the  end  the  eyes  are  on,  you  know  —  in  February. 
We'd  eat  the  other  half." 

"Yes,"  added  Mrs.  Macey,  who  had  left  her  house- 
work to  help  with  the  potato-slicing,  "  and  by  plant- 
ing time  we'd  have  a  great  lot  o'  those  dried-up  ends 
ready.  They  didn't  look  as  if  they'd  grow,  but  they 
would." 

About  eight  o'clock  Ted  came  with  the  team  to  get 
what  potatoes  were  ready  for  the  ground.  "  Why, 
good  Lord!  father,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  alighted,  "don't 
cut  any  more.  We  shan't  know  what  to  do  with 
'em." 

But  Mr.  Macey  was  sure  the  supply  was  still  insuffi- 
cient and  kept  on.  Just  then  a  tidily  dressed  little 
girl  passed  along  the  road  on  her  way  to  school. 
"  Good  morning,  Gusty,"  said  the  people  on  the 
piazza. 

The  schoolhouse  was  not  far  distant  —  a  small,  clap- 
boarded  wooden  building  with  a  board  fence  around 
the  yard.  I  had  looked  into  it  while  on  a  walk  that 
morning,  and  I  had  on  previous  occasions  visited  several 
others  in  the  mountains.  They  were  all  much  the 
same  —  very  plain  outside  and  in.  A  box  stove  was 
always  present  with  its  long  elbowing  pipe,  and  they 
were  certain  to  be  equipped  with  rude  double  desks 
made  by  the  local  carpenters. —  desks  that  were  appar- 


In  the  Adirondacks  101 

ently  used  as  much  by  the  pupils  for  whittling  pur- 
poses as  for  study. 

The  school  year  in  the  mountain  villages  consists  of 
two  terms  of  sixteen  weeks  each,  so  arranged  as  to  have 
the  teachers  free  in  summer  to  serve  as  waiters  in  the 
sporting-houses.  The  usual  pay  received  by  a  school- 
mistress is  seven  dollars  a  week.  *  Out  of  this  she  has 
to  pay  her  board  unless  she  resides  in  the  district.  If 
she  goes  home  Friday  night  to  stay  over  Sunday,  she 
may  get  boarded  for  two  dollars  ;  but  if  she  stays  the 
full  week,  she  has  to  pay  from  two  and  a  half  to  three 
dollars.  "  We  used  to  pay  women  teachers  a  dollar  a 
week,  and  they  boarded  round,"  said  Mr.  Macey  ;  "  but 
of  course  we  had  to  pay  a  man  in  winter  considerable 
more.  I  don't  think  the  schools  are  as  good  now  as 
they  were.  They  don't  have  as  good  discipline." 

"  No,"  remarked  Ted,  "  the  teachers  leave  their 
sled  stake  outdoors  now.  About  all  they  do  is  to 
give  the  scholars  a  tongue-banging." 

"  The  boys  used  to  be  learnt  to  bow  and  the  girls 
to  courtesy,"  Mr.  Macey  continued,  "  and  when  school 
was  dismissed  they  wa'n't  allowed  to  leave  on  the 
jump.  Now,  when  they  have  recess,  you  c'n  hear  'em 
for  miles  the  minute  they're  out.  Another  thing  we 
did  a  sight  better' n  they  do  these  days  was  spellin'. 
We  was  always  havin'  spellin'  matches  in  the  school, 
and  our  best  spellers  would  go  and  spell  against  those 
in  other  schools,  and  we'd  have  great  times." 

STATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 

flNCEIiES,  Cfll». 


IO2  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

"You'd  ought  to  seen  the  schoolhouse  we  had  here 
eight  years  ago,"  said  Ted.  "It  was  made  of  logs  and 
it  had  got  so  old  it  wa'n't  fit  to  keep  calves  in.  The 
sides  were  squshing  out,  and  some  of  the  sleepers  that 
held  up  the  floor  had  rotted  off  one  end  and  some  the 
other  end.  The  stove  had  a  rack  around  it  on  the 
floor  two  or  three  inches  high,  that  was  filled  in  with 
small  stones  and  dirt,  so  the  sparks  and  coals  falling 
out  from  the  stove  wouldn't  set  the  building  on  fire. 
The  last  teacher  I  had  was  Jane  Traver.  Her  great 
punishment  was  to  have  every  boy  that  didn't  behave 
roll  a  boulder  into  the  schoolroom  from  the  yard  and 
sit  on  it.  I  didn't  mind  that.  It  bothered  her  more 
than  it  did  me.  I'd  spread  my  handkerchief  over  it, 
and  then  she'd  scold  me,  and  I'd  tell  her  I  had  to  put 
my  handkerchief  on  there,  the  rock  was  so  hard." 

Ted  paused  and  took  something  from  the  bottom 
of  his  wagon.  "  Here's  an  animile  we  killed  over  by 
the  woods  this  morning,"  said  he,  holding  it  up. 

"A  hedgehog,  eh?"  was  Mr.  Macey's  comment. 
"  That  reminds  me  of  a  ghost  story.  I  suppose  you 
know  what  to  say  to  a  ghost  ? "  he  inquired,  looking 
toward  me. 

No,  I  did  not. 

"  You  want  to  say,  *  In  the  name  o'  God,  what  do 
you  want  o'  me?'  Then  the  ghost'll  have  to  answer. 
But  what  I  was  goin'  to  tell  about  was  a  happenin' 
years  ago  at  a  neighbor's  by  the  name  o'  Stetson. 


In  the  Adirondacks 


103 


They  heard  a  sound  every  night  like  sawing  wood,  in 
the  woodshed  with  a  buck-saw." 

"Did  they?"  Ted  interrupted.  "You  bet  your 
life  I'd  get  up  a  lot  of  wood  and  let  the  ghost  saw." 

"  The  people  would  look  into  the  shed,"  his  father 
continued,  "and  there  wa'n't  nothin'  there.  Well, 
that  sawin'  kep'  on,  and  every  night  the  folks  would 
come  from  all  around  to  hear  it,  and  the  Stetsons  was 
gettin'  pretty  well  scared.  By  and  by  I  went  one 
night,  and  I  heard  the  sawin'  same  as  the  rest,  and  we 
took  the  light  and  looked  into  the  shed  and  couldn't 
find  nothin'  to  cause  the  sound,  high  nor  low.  Then 
I  went  outside,  and  just  around  the  corner,  what'd  I 
find  but  a  hedgehog,  gnawing  at  an  old  barrel  the 
Stetsons  had  bought  salt  mackerel  in  ;  and  I  threw 
the  barrel  down  into  a  brook  that  was  close  by,  and 
they  never  had  no  more  trouble  after  that  with  any 
ghost  sawin'  wood  in  their  woodshed.  You  see  it 
sounded  so  like  it  was  inside,  no  one  never  thought 
to  look  outside  before." 

"  Well,  I  don't  wonder  the  people  was  frightened," 
said  Mrs.  Macey.  "  Even  a  little  mouse  will  make  a 
horrid  noise  in  the  night." 

"Yes,"  declared  Ted,  as  he  and  his  father  emptied 
the  cut  potatoes  into  the  wagon,  "  and  if  you  hear  a 
gray  squirrel  running  through  the  leaves  in  the  au- 
tumn, you'd  think  a  catamount  was  after  you." 

With  this  remark,  Ted  drove  off,  and  not  long  after- 


IO4  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

ward  I  left  the  farm-house,  and  began  my  day's  tramp- 
ing. I  became  acquainted  with  a  good  many  of  the 
mountain  people,  by  the  time  my  Adirondack  trip 
ended,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  their  general  intelli- 
gence was  of  a  high  order,  and  that,  in  spite  of  lack  of 
polish,  they  were  sure  to  win  the  respect  of  any  one 
who  was  at  all  in  sympathy  with  rural  life.  They 
have  not  yet  lost  the  pioneer  flavor  and  are  still 
wrestling  with  nature  in  the  woods  far  from  railroads, 

o 

unaffected  by  cities  and  by  the  influx  of  foreign  im- 
migrants. They  are  Yankees  of  a  primitive  sort  that 
has  pretty  much  disappeared  from  New  England. 
Among  them  is  a  certain  proportion  of  the  shiftless 
and  unthrifty,  but  in  the  main  I  thought  them  hard- 
working and  ambitious  of  bettering  their  condition. 
Their  language  was  picturesque  and  had  its  local  tang, 
but  it  was  seldom  grotesque  and  ignorant.  In  dress, 
the  men  and  boys  were  addicted  to  wearing  felt  hats, 
which  continued  in  use  long  after  the  bands  frayed 
and  disappeared,  and  till  these  articles  of  apparel  had 
become  shapeless  and  faded  to  the  last  degree,  but 
beautiful  and  harmonious  with  the  environment,  never- 
theless. The  other  work-day  garments  of  the  people 
had-  the  same  earthy,  elemental  look,  and  were  appar- 
ently never  thrown  away  as  long  as  thread  and  needle 
and  patches  would  make  them  hold  together. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  get  acquainted  with  the  children, 
they  were  so  modest  and  unsophisticated.       I  liked  to 


In   the  Adirondacks 


105 


watch  the  boys  working  in  the  fields  and  the  gentle  little 
girls  playing  about  the  home  yards.  They  get  a  good 
elementary  education  in  the  district  schools,  and  a 
generous  proportion  of  them  continue  their  studies 
at  the  academies  in  the  large  villages,  and  many  after 
that  go  to  Albany  and  take  a  course  in  a  business  col- 
lege. As  to  the  future  of  the  Adirondack  people,  the 
region  impressed  me  as  a  fresh  upland  fountain  of 
human  energy,  certain  to  contribute  much  of  its  strength 
to  the  town  life  of  the  nation  in  the  days  to  come. 


A  Roadside  Chat 


THE    HOME    OF    FENIMORE    COOPER 


I 


N  1785  William 
Cooper,  the  novel- 
ist's father,  visited 
the  rough,  hilly  country 
in  Otsego  County  of  cen- 
tral New  York.  At  that 
time  the  region  contained 
no  trace  of  any  road  and 
not  a  single  white  inhabit- 
ant. "  I  was  alone,"  he 
says,  "  three  hundred 
miles  from  home,  with- 
out bread,  meat,  or  food 
of  any  kind.  My  horse 
fed  on  the  grass  that  grew 
by  the  edge  of  the  waters. 
I  laid  me  down  to  sleep 
in  my  watch-coat,  noth- 
ing but  the  melancholy 

On  Cooperstown  Street  .,,  ,  ,, 

wilderness  around  me. 

Yet  the  pleasant  landscape,  the  fertility  of  the  soil, 
and  the  fact  that  an  estate  here  was  his  for  the  taking, 

1 06 


The  Home  of  Fenimore  Cooper  107 

made  him  determine  that  this  should  be  his  abode. 
At  the  southern  end  of  Otsego  Lake,  where  for  a 
century  the  Indian  traders  had  been  accustomed  to 
resort,  he  two  years  later  laid  out  a  village,  and  to  this 
spot  he  in  1790  brought  his  family. 

The  novelist  was  the  eleventh  of  twelve  children. 
He  was  born  in  1789,  at  Burlington,  New  Jersey, 
the  residence  of  his  mother's  people,  and  was  taken 
to  Cooperstown  when  he  was  thirteen  months  old. 
There  he  lived  a  healthy,  natural,  country  life,  sur- 
rounded by  pioneer  out-of-door  influences  that  did 
much  to  direct  his  tastes  and  shape  his  character. 
The  house  in  which  he  dwelt  during  his  early  boy- 
hood was  an  ordinary  farm-house;  but  in  1798  his 
father  erected  the  good-sized  mansion  known  to  fame 
as  Otsego  Hall.  This  stood  on  rising  ground,  facing 
the  lake,  with  the  village  clustering  about  it,  and  both 
in  its  generous  proportions  and  its  situation  was  a  fit- 
ting home  for  the  town's  founder  and  chief  citizen. 

The  site  of  the  old  Hall  is  still  the  heart  of  the 
town.  The  village  has  grown,  but  it  huddles  closest 
on  the  narrow  southern  margin  of  the  lake.  Here  is 
a  single,  broad  business  street  that  runs  square  across 
the  valley  of  the  lake-basin,  and  at  either  end  is  a 
wooded  bluff.  From  this  main  thoroughfare  the 
houses  straggle  away  on  various  minor  streets  and 
lanes.  The  place  has  many  characteristics  of  a  country 
market  town,  but  at  the  same  time  it  contains  numer- 


io8  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

ous  hotels,  and  frequent  summer  residences  of  city 
people  are  scattered  along  its  waterside  suburbs.  The 
lake  stretching  away  to  the  north  is  attractive  and  the 
environment  in  general  is  agreeable,  yet  nature  has  not 
been  lavish  enough  in  bestowing  its  charms  to  account 
for  the  magnetism  of  the  place  as  a  vacation  resort, 
considering  its  comparative  remoteness  and  inaccessi- 
bility. No  doubt  the  magic  of  Cooper's  name  fur- 
nishes the  real  explanation,  for  the  region  is  everywhere 
redolent  of  him  and  his  famous  romances.  In  the 
case  of  two  of  them  the  scenes  are  laid  immediately 
about  the  lake.  "  The  Deerslayer  "  depicts  the  neigh- 
borhood as  it  was  in  1745,  prior  to  its  settlement,  when 
all  around  was  unbroken  forest;  while  "The  Pioneers" 
is  the  story  of  the  founding  of  Cooperstown.  Topo- 
graphically the  descriptions  are  very  faithful,  and  spots 
abound  which  can  be  easily  identified  with  incidents  of 
the  narratives. 

The  town  was  more  than  ordinarily  lively  on  the 
morning  I  arrived,  for  I  chanced  to  be  just  in  time  to 
witness  quite  an  exodus  of  the  more  frothy,  sporty,  and 
youthful  of  the  inhabitants  on  their  way  to  a  circus 
that  was  holding  forth  in  a  neighboring  place.  The 
occasion  was  one  of  great  prospective  hilarity,  and  for 
some  of  the  crowd  it  would  run  into  dissipation  unless 
the  looks  of  the  celebrators  belied  them.  The  situation 
was  most  definitely  presented  by  a  man  riding  to  the 
station  in  a  hotel  'bus.  As  the  vehicle  rumbled  down 


The   Home  of  Fenimore  Cooper 


109 


the  street,  he  shouted,  whenever  he  happened  to  see  an 
acquaintance  :  "  You  want  to  meet  me  at  the  depot  to- 
night with  a  wagon;  and  say — you  have  the  side- 
boards on  !  Yes,  don't  forget  the  sideboards  !  " 


Looking  toward  the  Town  from  an  Eastern  Hillslope 

My  rambling  while  I  was  at  Cooperstown  was 
confined  to  a  radius  of  a  few  miles.  First,  of  course, 
it  took  me  to  the  green  borders  of  the  near  lake  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  village.  The  turf,  dotted 
with  trees,  descended  unbroken  almost  to  the  water's 
edge.  Numerous  wharves  reached  out  from  the  shore, 
most  of  them  slight  affairs  giving  access  to  a  rowboat, 
but  two  of  them  much  longer  and  more  substantial  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  pleasure  steamers  that  make 
constant  trips  up  and  down  the  lake  through  the 
summer.  On  the  eastern  verge  of  the  village  was 


no  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

the  channel  where  the  waters  find  a  way  to  escape ; 
and  they  departed  so  gently  and  the  tree-embowered 
passage  was  so  narrow  it  was  not  easy  to  realize  that 
here  I  beheld  the  source  of  the  Susquehanna. 

On  this  same  side  of  the  lake,  just  outside  the  town, 
are  pasture  slopes,  delightful  at  the  time  of  my  visit, 
with  cows  grazing  in  the  dandelion-spangled  grass. 
Down  below,  the  shore  was  fringed  with  bushes,  among 
which  were  many  "  shad-berries  "  and  "  pin-cherries  " 
all  ablow  with  white  blossoms.  The  land  on  this 
side  of  the  lake  as  you  go  on  farther  rises  in  steep 
ridges  overgrown  with  woods ;  and  dwellings  and 
cultivated  fields  are  infrequent.  I  preferred  the  other 
side  whenever  I  chose  to  take  a  long  walk.  It  is  more 
pastoral,  the  slopes  milder.  I  recall  one  afternoon's 
walk  on  the  western  highway  in  particular.  The  new 
leafage  was  getting  well  started,  the  grass  was  beginning 
to  grow  rank  in  the  meadows,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
bird-songs.  Chipmunks  and  red  squirrels  chattered 
among  the  trees  and  raced  up  and  down  the  trunks 
and  through  the  branches  with  almost  as  much  ease  as 
if  they  had  wings.  The  prevalence  of  the  streams,  too, 
contributed  to  the  spring  gayety.  They  were  every- 
where, varying  from  tiny  tricklings  to  lusty  brooks 
capable  of  turning  the  wheels  of  a  small  grist  or  saw 
mill.  Noise  and  haste  were  dominant  traits,  and  they 
coursed  down  the  hills  through  channels  littered  with 
rocks  and  pebbles,  and  made  many  a  shining  leap. 


THE  MARGIN  OF  THE  LAKE 


The   Home  of  Fenimore   Cooper  1 1  i 

I  kept  on  for  several  miles.  Sometimes  the  road 
was  close  by  the  lake,  sometimes  well  back  up  the 
slopes.  Once  I  made  a  detour  and  went  down  to  the 
water's  edge  across  a  swamp  where  flourished  jungles 
of  poison  ivy.  At  my  approach  a  sandpiper  fled  with 
thin-voiced  protest  in  nervous  flight  along  the  shore, 
and  a  profound-looking  kingfisher  gave  a  squeak  and 
adjourned  to  some  nook  more  secluded.  They  might 
have  saved  themselves  the  trouble  of  such  exertion  on 
my  account,  for  the  wetness  of  the  marsh  and  the 
prevalence  of  the  poison  vines  discouraged  me,  and  I 
was  glad  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 

When  I  at  length  had  gone  northward  as  far  as  I 
cared  to  and  had  turned  back  toward  the  town,  I  was 
overtaken  by  a  lumber  wagon  drawn  by  a  heavy  pair 
of  work-horses.  The  driver  pulled  up  and  asked  me 
to  ride,  and  I  accepted  the  invitation.  The  horses 
never  trotted,  but  they  walked  briskly  enough  to 
keep  the  springless  wagon  constantly  jolting,  and  the 
ride  was  not  altogether  comfortable.  Still,  the  change 
was  welcome,  for  the  road  was  decidedly  muddy. 

"  They've  been  over  it  lately  with  the  road-scraper," 
explained  my  companion,  "and  dragged  in  the  dirt 
from  the  sides.  It's  dirt  that  washed  off  from  the 
road,  and  it's  all  wore  out  and  ain't  fit  for  a  road  any 
more,  and  the  last  rain  we  had  just  softened  it  into 
pudding.  This  road  was  a  plank  road  when  I  was  a 
little  shaver.  There  was  a  lot  of  plank  roads  then. 


112  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

They  was  very  good  when  they  was  new,  and  we'd 
rattle  along  fine  —  ten  miles  an  hour  the  stage  cal- 
culated to  make.  If  you  met  a  team  you  had  to  turn 
off  on  the  ground  because  the  plank  wa'n't  only  long 
enough  for  a  single  track,  but  the  tops  was  laid  level 
with  the  ground,  and  that  didn't  matter.  The  greatest 
trouble  was  that  the  plank  got  worn  after  a  while  and 
the  knots  begun  to  stick  out,  and  new  planks  put  in 
here  and  there  helped  make  it  more  uneven  —  kind  o' 
shook  you  up  then. 

"  This  road  was  planked  twenty-seven  miles,  all  the 
way  to  Fort  Plain  on  the  New  York  Central.  That 
was  where  we  had  to  go  whenever  we  wanted  to  get 
to  the  railroad.  It  was  a  hard  journey,  especially  at 
the  break-up  of  winter,  when  the  stage  was  sometimes 
much  as  two  hours  getting  through  —  part  way  on 
wheels,  and  part  way  on  runners,  perhaps.  We  was 
mighty  glad,  I  can  tell  you,  when  this  little  branch 
railroad  that  strikes  in  here  from  the  south  was 
finally  built.  The  plank  roads  was  owned  by  private 
companies,  and  there  was  toll  gates  every  four  or  five 
miles,  but  it  was  too  costly  keepin'  the  plank  in  repair, 
and  by  and  by  they  pulled  'em  up  and  put  in  gravel 
turnpikes.  Those  didn't  pay  either,  and  so  the  com- 
panies went  out  of  business  and  let  the  public  fix  their 
own  roads." 

As  the  driver  finished  speaking,  we  were  passing  a 
broad  field  on  the  farther  side  of  which  I  could  see 


The   Home  of  Fenimore  Cooper 


Putting  on  a  Fresh  Coat  of  Paint 

three  children  wandering  about  and  occasionally  stoop 
ing  to  pick  something.  "What  are  they  doing?"  I 
asked. 

"  Seem    to    be    cutting   dandelion    greens,"   was    the 
i 


H4  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

reply  ;  "  but  it's  gettin'  rather  past  time  for  dande- 
lions, and  they'll  have  to  boil  'em  in  soda-water  to 
take  the  toughness  out.  Some  use  milkweeds  for 
greens.  I  like  cowslops  myself  better  than  milkweed  or 
dandelions  either.  You  take  a  nice  mess  of  cowslop 
greens  in  the  spring,  picked  before  they  get  in  blossom, 
while  they're  tender,  and  they're  all-fired  good." 

"  This  is  fine  farm  land  we're  driving  through  now," 
I  suggested. 

"  Yes,  it's  all  right.  It  don't  pay  for  itself,  though 
—  but  then  it  don't  have  to.  You  see  that  big  house 
down  there  in  the  trees.  Belongs  to  a  New  York 
lawyer.  He's  only  got  about  twenty  acres  of  land,  and 
yet  he  keeps  three  hired  men.  They  raise  some  crops 
and  take  care  of  a  few  critters,  but  mostly  they're  busy 
just  makin'  the  place  look  nice.  Almost  every  pretty 
point  of  land  along  the  shore  here  has  got  an  expensive 
house  on  it  that  some  city  man  has  put  up,  so  he  can 
amuse  himself  by  making  a  fad  of  fancy  stock-farming 
or  something  of  the  sort.  Now  we're  comin'  opposite 
another  handsome  place.  The  grounds  front  on  the 
road  for  half  a  mile,  and  the  whole  distance  there's  this 
big  stone  wall.  A  stone  wall's  a  thing  a  poor  man 
can't  afford.  It's  an  expensive  fence,  no  matter  how 
you  calculate  —  always  tumblin'  down,  and  brush  and 
vines  always  growin'  round  it.  This  wall's  as  well 
built  as  it  could  be,  but  the  frost  will  heave  it,  and 
every  spring  a  couple  of  men  spend  a  good  many 


GETTING  READY  TO  PLANT  HIS  GARDEN 


The   Home  of  Fenimore  Cooper  115 

days  repairing  of  it.  When  it  begins  to  pitch  there 
ain't  nothing  can  save  it,  and  they  have  to  take  the 
bad  places  clean  down  to  the  foundation  and  lay  'em 
over." 

I  continued  on  the  lumber  wagon  not  only  as  far  as 
the  town,  but  a  mile  or  two  beyond,  down  a  broad, 
fertile  farm  valley.  On  the  east  side  of  the  valley  the 
land  rose  in  high  slopes  checkered  with  cultivated  fields. 
"  The  farther  you  go  up  the  hills  in  that  direction," 
said  the  driver,  "  the  thinner  the  soil  gets,  and  an 
American  couldn't  get  a  livin'  ofF'n  it;  but  there's 
English  from  across  the  Atlantic  that'll  take  that 
high  scrub  land  and  clear  it,  and  do  well.  That  is, 
they  get  to  own  their  farms  and  have  money  at  in- 
terest—  though  they  ain't  satisfied  no  more'n  any  one 
else." 

We  passed  several  large  hop  fields,  set  full  of  tall 
poles,  at  the  foot  of  which  were  green  outreachings  of 
vines.  In  one  field  were  two  women  tying  the  strag- 
gling stems  to  the  poles.  "  There  ain't  only  a  few  got 
at  that  job  yet,"  remarked  the  driver.  "  Hops  are  a 
great  crop  in  this  part  of  the  state,  but  they  ain't  lookin' 
first-rate  this  year  —  didn't  stand  the  winter  well  —  and 
a  good  many  farmers  are  ploughing  'em  up.  They  don't 
pay  as  they  used  to.  The  price  has  been  goin'  down 
for  a  long  time.  You  can't  get  a  decent  crop  unless 
you  give  up  your  best  medder  land  to  'em  and  put 
about  all  the  manure  your  farm  makes  on  'em.  So 


ii6  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

folks  are  givin'  'em  up  and  goin'  more  into  dairying. 
There's  a  cheese  factory  at  the  village  that  they  bring 
their  milk  to,  and  that  pays  'em  on  an  average  about 
two  cents  and  a  half  a  quart. 

"  The  time  was  when  we  got  considerable  money 
out  of  our  woodland,  but  the  best  lumber's  pretty  near 
all  gone  now.  Twenty  years  ago  there  was  a  tannery 
a  little  below  the  town.  It  used  a  power  o'  hemlock 
bark,  and  lots  o'  farmers  would  cut  their  hemlocks  and 
peel  'em  and  let  the  trees  lie  and  rot.  They  don't 
waste  any  good  lumber  that  way  any  more.  The 
tannery  went  out  of  business  long  ago,  and  the  build- 
ing was  fixed  over  into  a  sawmill.  It  stands  on  a 
crick  that  comes  from  the  hills  to  the  east.  That 
crick's  about  as  boisterous  a  stream  of  its  size  as  I 
ever  see.  When  we  have  a  big  rain  it  rises  right  up 
and  tears  everything  all  to  pieces.  At  first  the  saw- 
mill was  run  by  water-power,  but  the  crick  carried  off 
the  dam  so  often,  they  finally  got  tired  of  rebuilding  it 
and  put  in  steam.  They  burn  the  old  waste  to  run 
their  engine  —  sawdust  and  everything  —  and  so  it 
don't  cost  much  gettin'  up  their  steam." 

Presently  I  inquired  about  the  town  as  it  was  in 
Cooper's  time.  "  I  wish  you  could  'a'  talked  with  my 
father,"  was  the  response.  "  He  knew  all  about  it. 
'Twas  just  an  ordinary  little  country  town  —  a  few 
stores,  and  a  couple  o'  churches,  and  two  wooden 
taverns,  and  about  all  the  rest  of  it  was  farm-houses. 


The   Home  of  Fenimore  Cooper  117 

'Twa'n't  built  up  the  way  it  is  at  present.  I  know 
father  told  how  a  hill  that's  now  got  houses  all  over  it 
was  in  them  days  outside  the  town  a  hundred  rods  or 
so,  and  it  was  covered  with  pines.  When  a  horse  died 
they'd  drag  the  carcass  up  there  and  let  it  lay,  and 


Spring  Work  in  a  Farm  Field 

think  they'd  got  it  well  out  of  the  way.      They  used 
to  call  that  hill  'The  Horse  Heaven.' 

"  I  don't  think  Cooper  left  his  family  in  very  good 
circumstances.  His  daughters  was  very  nice — real 
ladies,  —  and  they  was  very  charitable,  and  give  away 
an  awful  sight,  so't  I  do'  know  but  they  most  suffered 
themselves.  They  made  kind  of  a  hobby  out  ot  the 


1 1 8  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

orphanage  here,  for  one  thing.  You'd  have  an  idea 
that  Cooper's  books  would  bring  considerable  to  the 
family  long  after  he  was  dead,  but  they  say  he  sold 
a  good  many  of  'em  outright,  and  after  his  death  there 
wasn't  much  in  money  ever  come  in  from  'em." 

Although  Cooper's  home  town  is  very  closely  identi- 
fied with  him,  he  did  not  always  reside  there,  and  he 
was  a  good  deal  of  a  rover  in  his  early  life.  At  the 
age  of  nine  he  went  to  Albany,  where  he  attended 
school  for  four  years,  and  then  entered  Yale,  the  next 
to  the  youngest  student  in  the  college.  He  won  no 
laurels  at  Yale,  for  the  woods  and  fields  possessed  for 
him  a  far  keener  attraction  than  books,  and  his  poor 
standing,  added  to  some  boyish  prank  in  the  third  year 
of  his  course,  led  to  his  dismissal.  His  father  now  sent 
him  to  sea  before  the  mast  on'  a  merchantman.  This 
was  intended  as  a  preparation  for  later  going  into  the 
navy,  which  he  entered  as  a  midshipman  at  the  age  of 
nineteen.  He  served  until  he  was  twenty-two,  when 
he  resigned  his  commission  and  married. 

Meanwhile  his  father  had  died,  and  in  the  family 
home  at  Cooperstown  dwelt  his  mother  and  older 
brother.  Cooper  himself  lived  in  New  York,  Phila- 
delphia, and  other  places,  and  spent  the  eight  years 
preceding  1834  abroad.  When  he  returned,  Otsego 
Hall  became  his  permanent  residence.  The  dwelling 
had  hitherto  been  a  simple,  commodious  village  house, 
but  he  remodelled  it,  added  a  wooden  battlement, 


THE  MONUMENT  ON  THE  SITE  OF  OTSEGO  HALL 


The  Home  of  Fenimore  Cooper  119 

threw  out  porches  and  projections,  changed  the  win- 
dows to  the  Gothic  style,  and  gave  the  whole  structure 
an  air  that  bore  some  resemblance  to  the  ancestral 
home  of  an  English  country  gentleman. 

Here  he  kept  open  house  to  his  friends,  cultivated 
his  garden,  and  wrote.  Here  also  he  became  involved 
in  that  curious  series  of  lawsuits  that  resulted  in  many 
years  of  bickering.  He  came  back  from  Europe  to 
our  raw,  new  country,  and  expressed  with  great  frank- 
ness his  impressions  of  his  native  land,  and  these  were 
not  at  all  flattering  —  there  was  so  much  pretension, 
so  much  that  was  crude  and  ungenuine,  and  he  spoke 
with  especial  severity  of  the  capricious  vulgarity  of 
the  newspapers.  The  public,  always  oversensitive  to 
criticism,  became  more  and  more  irritated.  Then  came 
the  Three  Mile  Point  controversy  between  Cooper  and 
his  fellow-townsmen,  which  brought  on  a  general  storm 
of  denunciation. 

The  Point  which  caused  the  disturbance  is  an  attrac- 
tive wooded  ledge  jutting  out  into  the  lake  from  the 
western  shore  three  miles  above  Cooperstown.  It 
had  long  been  in  common  use  as  a  picnic  ground, 
and  the  townsfolk  had  begun  to  feel  that  it  was  pub- 
lic property  and  that  no  one  had  any  business  to  inter- 
fere with  their  continued  appropriation  of  it.  But  the 
ownership  was  in  the  Cooper  family,  and  the  novelist, 
with  his  aristocratic  notions  about  private  estates,  ab- 
sorbed during  his  long  residence  abroad,  wished  to  have 


I2O  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

his  ownership  recognized.  He  had  no  desire  to  de- 
prive the  people  of  their  picnic  place.  He  only  wanted 
them  to  ask  such  use  as  a  privilege,  not  take  it  as  a 
right.  To  effect  this  end  he  published  a  card  warning 
the  public  against  trespassing.  As  a  consequence  a 
mass  meeting  was  convened,  at  which  it  was  resolved 
to  hold  Cooper's  threat  and  his  whole  conduct  "  in 
perfect  contempt,"  to  have  his  books  removed  from 
the  village  library,  and  to  "  denounce  any  man  as  a 
sycophant,  who  has,  or  shall,  ask  permission  of 
James  F.  Cooper  to  visit  the  Point  in  question." 

Cooper  fought  with  vigor  and  persistence  what  he 
deemed  the  unreasonableness  of  his  neighbors,  but 
his  victory  was  never  complete,  and  he  finally  dropped 
the  matter,  and  the  public  used  Three  Mile  Point 
again  unconditionally.  This  was  not,  however,  the 
end  of  the  trouble.  It  had  been  given  wide  notoriety 
by  the  newspapers,  and  their  comments  were  so  per- 
sonal and  offensive  that  Cooper  was  stirred  to  institute 
many  libel  suits  against  them.  Such  was  his  inde- 
pendence, his  pugnaciousness,  and  quick  temper  that 
he  kept  up  the  warfare  for  years.  Yet  this  interfered 
but  little  with  the  tranquillity  of  his  home  life.  He 
was  closely  bound  to  his  family,  and  was  always 
warmly  affectionate ;  and  though  he  had  his  enemies, 
he  was  much  liked  by  those  who  knew  him  well,  and 
he  never  failed  to  win  the  regard  of  the  men  who 
worked  for  him.  Two  miles  to  the  north,  on  the 


The   Home  of  Fenimore   Cooper  ill 

eastern  side  of  the  lake,  he  bought  a  farm  and  built 
on  it  a  cottage  of  the  Swiss  type.  He  named  the 
place  "  The  Chalet "  and  entered  with  great  enjoy- 
ment into  the  superintendence  of  clearing  and  improv- 
ing the  land,  extracting  stumps,  setting  out  trees, 
raising  crops,  and  rearing  poultry.  He  was  particu- 
larly interested  in  his  live  stock,  and  the  animals  knew 
and  followed  him  in  recognition  of  the  kindness  of  his 
treatment. 

It  was  customary  for  the  family  to  breakfast  at  nine, 
dine  at  three,  and  have  tea  at  seven  in  the  evening. 
The  novelist  rose  two  hours  before  breakfast  and 
began  writing,  and  after  the  morning  meal  resumed 
his  pen  until  eleven.  The  rest  of  the  day  was  free 
to  other  pursuits.  For  recreation  he  frequently  went 
out  on  the  lake  in  his  boat  —  a  skiff  with  a  lug  sail. 
This  rude  little  craft  went  along  very  well  before  the 
breeze,  but  was  of  not  much  use  in  beating  to  wind- 
ward. It  was,  however,  quite  to  its  owner's  liking, 
and  was  conducive  to  leisurely  contemplation,  and  in 
it  he  doubtless  thought  out  many  a  stirring  chapter  for 
his  books.  Cooper  never  kept  a  carriage  ;  a  horse  and 
buggy  sufficed  instead  and  served  him  when  he  chose 
to  drive  up  to  "  The  Chalet."  This  was  a  trip  he 
made  nearly  every  day  after  he  finished  his  literary 
work,  for  a  stay  of  two  or  three  hours. 

His  habits  were  methodical,  and  he  seldom  allowed 
anything  to  keep  him  from  his  desk  during  the  morn- 


122  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

ing  hours.  He  composed  with  ease  and  never  lacked 
for  words  or  for  subjects;  yet  authorship  was  in  his 
case  purely  an  accident,  and  he  was  thirty  when  he 
began  his  first  book.  This  book  was  the  outcome  of 
his  remarking  to  his  wife  one  evening  as  he  threw 
down  impatiently  a  recent  novel  he  had  been  reading 
aloud,  "  I  could  write  you  a  better  book  myself." 

She  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea  and 
challenged  him  to  undertake  the  task.  Hitherto  he 
had  disliked  even  to  write  a  letter,  but  now  he  set 
arduously  to  work  and  finished  several  chapters.  Then 
he  would  have  quit  had  not  his  wife  become  interested 
and  urged  him  on  ;  and  presently  "  Precaution  "  was 
not  only  finished,  but  published.  It  was  merely  an 
imitation  of  the  average  English  story  of  fashionable 
life.  Yet  it  revealed  to  Cooper  an  unexpected  capacity, 
and  he  at  once  began  a  thoroughly  original  Ameri- 
can story — "  The  Spy,"  which  has  been  called  "  the 
first  brilliantly  successful  romance "  published  in  this 
country. 

Cooper's  death  occurred  in  1851,  and  his  wife  sur- 
vived him  only  a  few  months.  Otsego  Hall  was  then 
sold,  an  extra  story  was  added,  and  it  was  turned 
into  a  hotel.  A  heavy  insurance  was  placed  on  the 
property  and  with  very  little  delay  it  burned,  after  a 
manner  that  heavily  insured  buildings  sometimes  have 
of  doing.  The  site  of  the  old  Hall  is  now  a  pleasing 
park,  and  where  the  house  stood  is  a  striking  monu- 


The  Home  of  Fenimore  Cooper  123 

ment,  but  it  seems  a  pity  the  house  itself  could  not 
have  been  preserved  just  as  Cooper  left  it.  The 
novelist  lies  buried  in  the  tree-shadowed  quiet  of  a 
near  churchyard,  and  the  much-worn  path  to  his  grave, 
trodden  by  thousands  of  pilgrim  feet,  attests  his  abid- 
ing fame. 


The  Graves  of  J.  Fenimore  Cooper  and  his  Wite 


VI 


AN    HISTORIC    TOWN    IN    CONNECTICUT 

MY  acquaint- 
ance with 
Saybrook 
began  rather  unpro- 
pitiously at  its  one 
hotel.  This  was  a 
shapeless  yellow 
structure,  evidently  an 
old  residence  some- 
what remodelled  and 
enlarged.  Its  busiest 
portion  was  the  bar- 
room adorned  with 
a  heavy  cherry  coun- 
ter and  an  imposing 
array  of  bottles  on 
Setting  out  the  House-plants  the  shelves  behind. 

When  I  entered  the  adjoining  office,  several  men  were 
in  the  bar-room  running  over  their  vocabularies  of 
swear  words  in  a  high-voiced  dispute ;  and  in  the  office 

124 


An   Historic  Town  in  Connecticut 


125 


itself  sat  two  young  fellows  drowsing  in  drunken  stu- 
por.    The  whole  place  was  permeated  with  the  odors 


Sayhrook  Street 

of  liquor  and  with  tobacco  fumes,  both  recent  and  of 
unknown  antiquity. 

.But  if  the  aspect  of  local  life  as  seen  at  the  hotel 
was  depressing,  the  village,  on  the  evening  I  arrived, 
was  to  my  eyes  quite  entrancing.  In  the  May  twilight 
I  walked  from  end  to  end  of  the  long  chief  street. 
The  birds  were  singing,  and  from  the  seaward  marshes 
came  the  piping  of  the  frogs  and  the  purring  monotone 
cf  the  toads.  Lines  of  great  elms  and  sugar  maples 
shadowed  the  walks,  and  the  latter  had  blossomed  so 
that  every  little  twig  had  its  tassels  of  delicate  yellow- 
green,  and  a  gentle  fragrance  filled  the  air.  Among 


1 26  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

other  trees,  a  trifle  retired,  were  many  pleasant  homes  of 
the  plain  but  handsome  and  substantial  type  in  vogue 
about  a  century  ago.  In  short,  the  place  furnished  an 
admirable  example  of  the  old  New  England  country 
town,  and  imparted  a  delightful  sense  of  repose  and 
comfort. 

The  most  incongruous  feature  of  the  village  was  an 
abnormal,  modern  schoolhouse  that  in  its  decorative 
trickery  matched  nothing  else  on  the  street.  From  this 
it  was  a  relief  to  turn  to  the  white,  square-towered  old 
church  neighboring,  which  gave  itself  no  airs  and  cut  no 
capers  with  architectural  frills  and  fixings.  On  its  front 
was  a  bronze  plate  informing  the  reader  that  here  was 

THE  FIRST  CHURCH  OF  CHRIST 

IN  SAYBROOK 

ORGANIZED 

IN  "THE  GREAT  HALL"   OF  THE   FORT 
IN  THE  SUMMER  OF   1646 

Thus  it  was  one  of  the  earliest  founded  churches  in 
the  commonwealth. 

An  odd  thing  about  the  town,  and  one  that  rather 
offset  its  sentiment  of  antiquity,  was  the  omnipresence 
of  bicycles.  Everybody  —  old  and  young,  male  and 
female  —  rode  this  thoroughly  modern  contrivance. 
Pedestrianism  had  apparently  gone  out  of  fashion,  and 
I  got  the  idea  that  the  children  learned  to  ride  a  wheel 
before  they  began  to  walk. 


An  Historic  Town  in  Connecticut  127 

Another  odd  thing  was  that  the  village  looked 
neither  agricultural  nor  suburban.  It  is  in  truth  the 
dwelling-place  of  a  country  aristocracy  possessed  of  a 
good  deal  of  wealth,  and  labor  is  not  very  strenuous. 
The  people  are  content  if  they  have  sufficient  capital 
safely  invested  to  return  them  a  comfortable  living  and 
save  them  the  necessity  for  undue  exertion.  Yet,  to 
quote  a  native,  "  They  are  nothing  like  as  rich  as  they 
were  fifty  years  ago." 

Much  money  has  been  lost  in  one  way  and  another. 
The  decrease,  however,  is  more  due  to  removals  and 
to  the  division  of  large  individual  properties  among 
several  heirs.  But,  whatever  the  ups  and  downs  of 
fortune,  the  town  apparently  changes  slowly,  and  the 
inhabitants  cling  to  the  customs  of  their  forefathers. 
One  evidence  of  this  was  the  retention  of  miles  and 
miles  of  unnecessary  fences  about  the  dwellings,  some 
of  them  of  close  boards,  suggestive  of  monastic  seclu- 
siveness. 

The  oldest  house  in  the  town  that  still  presents  in 
the  main  its  original  aspect  dates  back  to  1665.  It  is 
painted  a  dingy  yellow,  and  has  a  high  front,  from 
which  the  rear  roof  takes  a  long  slant  downward,  until 
the  eaves  are  within  easy  reach,  and  you  have  to  stoop 
to  go  in  at  the  back  door.  The  windows  have  the 
tiny  panes  of  the  time  when  the  dwelling  was  erected. 
The  rooms  all  have  warped  floors,  and  low  ceilings 
crossed  by  great  beams;  and  the  heavy  vertical  timbers 


128  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

assert  themselves  in  the  corners.  The  upper  story  has 
only  two  apartments  finished.  As  was  usual  in  houses 
of  this  kind,  the  rest  was  left  simply  garret  space  bare 
to  the  rafters.  In  the  heart  of  the  structure  is  an 
enormous  chimney  that  on  the  ground  floor  takes  up 
the  space  of  a  small  room.  There  are  fireplaces  on 
three  sides,  but  their  days  of  service  are  past,  though 
they  never  have  been  closed  except  with  fireboards. 


In  a  Back  Yard 

At  the  rear  of  the  house,  under  an  apple  tree,  were 
two  vinegar  barrels,  each  of  which  had  an  inverted 
bottle  stuck  in  the  bung-hole.  The  contents  of  the 
barrels,  in  their  cider  state,  had  been  allowed  to  freeze 
and  then  were  drained  off.  A  highly  concentrated 
beverage  was  in  this  manner  obtained,  much  esteemed 


An   Historic  Town  in   Connecticut  129 

by  the  well-seasoned  cider-lover.  I  was  offered  a 
chance  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  liquor,  yet  not 
without  warning  that,  as  it  was  almost  pure  alcohol, 
there  was  some  danger  of  overdoing  the  matter. 

To  the  north  of  the  town  one  does  not  have  to  fol- 
low the  highways  far  to  encounter  country  that,  with 
all  the  years  passed  since  the  settlement  of  the  region, 
is  still  only  half  tamed.  Here  are  rocky  hills,  brushy 
pastures,  and  rude  stone  walls  overgrown  with  poison 
ivy.  Many  of  the  homes  are  ancient  and  dilapidated 
and  the  premises  strewn  with  careless  litter.  Work  is 
carried  on  in  a  primitive  fashion.  A  landowner  of 
this  district  w;th  whom  I  talked  affirmed  that  farm- 
ing did  not  pay,  and  the  reason  he  gave  was  the  com- 
petition of  the  West  —  it  had  knocked  the  bottom  out 
of  prices. 

I  wondered  if  there  were  not  other  reasons.  He  was 
furrowing  out  a  half-acre  patch  on  which  he  intended 
to  plant  potatoes.  His  hired  man  was  leading  the  horse 
while  he  himself  held  the  plough-handles.  It  seemed 
to  me  his  patch  was  not  large  enough  to  work  eco- 
nomically with  a  view  to  profit,  and  that  the  profit  was 
also  being  dissipated  by  having  two  men  do  work  that 
might  be  done  by  one.  Down  the  slope  was  a  long 
stretch  of  marshes  that  swept  away  to  the  sea,  with  a 
muddy-banked  creek  wandering  through  the  level. 
The  man  said  he  would  cut  salt  hay  on  these  marshes 
later  in  the  year,  and  as  the  soil  was  too  boggy  to  bear 
K 


ijo  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

the  weight  of  a  horse,  not  only  would  the  mowing  have 
to  be  done  by  hand,  but  he  and  his  helper  would  be 
obliged  to  carry  the  hay  to  firm  land  between  them  on 
poles.  Here,  again,  it  was  not  easy  to  discern  much 


Ploughing  out  for  Potatoes 

chance  for  profit.  The  process  was  too  laborious 
where  the  product  was  of  so  little  value.  Then,  at  the 
man's  home,  I  noted  that  the  stable  manure  lay  leach- 
ing in  the  sun  and  rain,  unprotected  by  any  roof,  that 
the  mowing-machine  and  other  tools  were  scattered 
about  the  yard  accumulating  rust,  and  that  things 
in  general  looked  careless  and  easy-going.  I  did 
not  wonder  he  took  a  pessimistic  view  of  farming. 

The  places  of  many  of  his  neighbors  were  akin  to 
his,  and  as  a  whole  this  outlying  district  seemed  a  piece 


An   Historic  Town   in   Connecticut 


out  of  the  past  when  farming  was  done  by  main  strength, 
and  brains  and  method  and  science  were  quite  secondary. 
This  old-fashioned  aspect  was  further  emphasized  by 
the  presence  of  an  occasional  slow  ox-team  toiling  in 
the  fields,  and  now  and  then  an  antiquated  well-sweep 
in  a  dooryard. 

A  well-sweep  was  an  adjunct  of  one  house  in  the  town 
itself — a  gray,  square  little  house  far  gone  in  decay. 
Lights  were  missing  from  the  windows,  clapboards  were 
dropping  off,  blinds  were  dilapidated  or  gone  altogether, 
and  the  outbuildings  had  either  fallen  and  been  used  for 
stove  wood,  or  were  on  the  verge  of  ruin.  The  shed 
used  as  a  hen-house  leaned  at  a  perilous  slant.  Near 


. 


A  Roadway  on  the  Saybrook  Outskirts 

it  was  a  scanty  pile  of  wood  and  a  savvhorse  made  by 
nailing  a  couple  of  sticks  crosswise  on  the  end  ot  a  box 
so  that  the  tops  projected  above  the  box  level  and 


132  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

formed  a  crotch.  Along  the  street  walk  staggered  a 
decrepit  picket  fence  with  a  sagging  gate.  The  yard 
was  a  chaos  of  weeds  and  riotous  briers,  and  the  place 
looked  mysterious  —  as  if  it  had  a  history  —  perhaps 
was  haunted. 

A  tiny  path  led  around  to  the  back  door,  so  slightly 
trodden  I  was  in  doubt  whether  the  house  was  inhab- 
ited or  not  until  I  saw  a  bent  old  woman  coming 
from  the  grass  field  at  the  rear  of  the  premises.  On 
her  head  she  wore  a  sunbonnet  of  ancient  type  and 
over  her  shoulders  a  faded  shawl.  She  was  hobbling 
slowly  along  with  the  help  of  a  cane,  and  bore  on  her 
arm  a  basket  with  a  few  dandelion  greens  in  the  bottom. 
I  stood  leaning  on  the  fence,  hoping  chance  would  give 
me  an  opportunity  to  know  more  about  this  strange 
house;  and  to  avoid  an  appearance  of  staring  I  now 
looked  the  other  way.  But  my  loitering  had  attracted 
the  woman's  attention,  and,  instead  of  going  into  the 
house,  she  set  her  basket  on  the  back  door-step  and 
came  feebly  down  the  path  and  spoke  to  me.  She  was 
a  mild-eyed,  kindly  old  soul,  and  in  the  chat  which 
followed  I  learned  that  she  was  eighty  years  old  and 
that  her  brother,  aged  seventy-six,  the  only  other  mem- 
ber of  the  household,  was  a  "joiner."  Presently  I 
asked  about  some  of  the  garden  flowers  which  had 
survived  in  their  neglected  struggle  with  weeds  and 
brambles. 

"  They  need  the  old  woman,"  she  said,  "  but  I'm 


An   Historic  Town  in  Connecticut  133 

most  past  such  work  now.  My  lameness  is  getting 
worse.  I  have  it  every  winter,  and  it  doesn't  leave 
me  until  warm  weather  comes.  I  shall  have  to  get 
my  brother  to  hoe  some  here.  He  isn't  much  for 
taking  care  of  flowers,  but  he  likes  'em  as  well  as  any 
one,  and  if  he's  going  to  make  a  call,  he'll  pick  a 
bunch  to  carry  along.  I  used  to  have  more  kinds, 
and  I'd  keep  some  of  'em  in  the  house  through  the 
winter,  but  when  I  did  that  I  had  to  see  the  fire  didn't 
go  out  nights,  and  it  got  too  hard  for  me." 

"  What  are  those  white  flowers  spreading  all  through 
the  grass  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Those  are  myrtle  —  white  myrtle.     Want  one?" 

My  reply  was  affirmative,  and  I  was  invited  into  the 
yard.  I  picked  a  myrtle  blossom  and  the  old  woman 
said,  "  You  can  have  more  just  as  well." 

"  Thank  you,  one  will  do  ;  and  what  are  these  little 
flowers  at  my  feet  ?  " 

"  Those  are  bluebottles.  I  got  the  first  plants  from 
my  cousin's  up  in  Tolland  County.  Want  one?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  would  like  one." 

"  Take  more  if  you  care  to." 

"  No,  I'd  rather  have  just  the  one.  Here  are  some 
pink  flowers  in  a  bunch.  What  are  they  ?  " 

"  Those  are  polyanthus.  You  can  have  a  root  to 
take  home  with  you  if  you  can  carry  it." 

Thus  our  talk  rambled  on,  while  we  considered 
double  violets,  "  daffies,"  bloodroot,  mandrakes, 


134  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

"  chiny  asters,"  tiger  lilies,  "  pineys,"  tulips,  hyacinths, 
etc.  The  garden  had  formerly  been  very  tidy,  and  I 
could  trace  its  decorative  arrangement  of  beds  and 
paths.  The  borders  of  the  beds  were  outlined  with 
rows  of  big  "  winkle  "  shells  which  the  brother  had 
brought  up  from  the  seashore  a  mile  or  two  distant, 
where  he  sometimes  went  "  clamming  and  oystering." 

Close  about  the  house  were  blue  and  yellow  lilies, 
bunches  of  ferns,  and  a  good  deal  of  shrubbery,  includ- 
ing roses,  a  "  honeysuckle  "  bush,  and  a  tall  "  lilack." 
This  last  carried  its  blossoms  so  high  that  they  were 
far  beyond  the  woman's  reach  as  she  stood  on  the 
ground,  and  she  only  picked  such  as  she  could  gather 
from  an  upper  window.  Near  the  back  door  was  a 
big  butternut  tree,  and  a  grape-vine  overrunning  a 
shaky  trellis.  Here,  too,  was  the  well-sweep  with  its 
rickety  curb  and  its  oaken  bucket. 

I  was  made  welcome  to  step  inside  the  house  and 
see  the  old  dwelling,  but  I  did  not  find  it  especially 
interesting.  The  barren,  cluttered  rooms,  with  their 
suggestion  of  extreme  poverty,  were  depressing.  In 
the  parlor,  which  was  used  as  a  sort  of  storeroom,  were 
a  number  of  antiquated  pictures  on  the  walls,  most  of 
them  in  heavy  frames  that  the  woman  had  contrived 
herself — some  of  cones,  some  of  shells  stuck  in  putty. 
The  cones  and  shells  varied  much  in  size  and  kind, 
and  the  patterns  were  intricate  and  ingenious.  Then 
there  was  a  specimen  of  hair  work,  dusty  and  moth- 


DRAWING  A  BUCKET  OK  WATER 


An   Historic  Town  in   Connecticut  135 

eaten,  which  she  took  out  of  its  frame  that  I  might  in- 
spect it  closer.  "  I  used  to  be  quite  a  hand  making  these 
sort  of  things,"  she  explained,  "  but  now  I  don't  have 
the  time.  It's  about  all  I  can  do  to  get  enough  to 
eat." 

I  came  away  wondering  what  the  trouble  was  that 
the  brother  and  sister  were  so  poorly  provided  for  in 
their  old  age,  and  when  I  inquired  about  it  I  was  told 
that  the  brother  was  "  one  of  the  smartest  men  in 
Connecticut,"  an  architect  and  builder  of  great  ability, 
but  "  he  had  looked  through  the  bottom  of  a  glass  too 
often." 

The  most  historic  portion  of  Saybrook  is  what  is 
known  as  "  The  Point,"  a  seaward-reaching  projection  a 
half-mile  across,  connected  with  the  mainland  by  a  nar- 
row neck.  Here  the  first  settlers  established  themselves 
in  1635.  The  leaders  who  had  planned  this  settlement 
had  in  October  of  that  year  reached  Boston  from  across 
the  sea.  In  Boston  they  collected  twenty  men,  hired 
a  small  vessel,  and  about  the  middle  of  November 
posted  off  for  the  mouth  of  the  Connecticut.  They 
brought  with  them  materials  for  the  erection  ot  houses 
to  accommodate  both  themselves  and  others  who  were 
to  follow  ;  and  they  were  prepared  to  construct  a  fort, 
in  part  to  prevent  the  Dutch,  who  aspired  to  control 
the  river,  from  accomplishing  their  purpose,  and  in 
part  to  defend  themselves  against  the  Indians. 

Thev  arrived   none   too  soon  ;  for  a  few  davs  atter 


136  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

they  landed,  a  vessel  from  New  Amsterdam  appeared 
off  shore  with  intent  to  take  possession  of  the  region 
and  build  fortifications.  Luckily  the  English  had 
mounted  a  couple  of  cannon,  and  the  Dutch  thought 
best  to  return  peaceably  whence  they  had  come. 
Winter  soon  set  in,  and  the  settlers  could  do  little 
beforehand  save  to  provide  themselves  with  shelters 
of  the  most  primitive  kind.  In  the  spring  work  was 
taken  up  in  earnest,  and  other  settlers  came ;  but  for  a 
long  time  the  colony  grew  very  slowly,  and  the  earliest 
years  were  years  of  annual  struggle  with  the  stubborn 
earth  and  the  hard  winters.  One  of  the  first  tasks  of 
the  pioneers  was  to  build  a  wooden  fort  and  to  set  up 
a  line  of  palisades  twelve  feet  high  across  the  neck  of 
the  peninsula.  Like  all  the  early  towns,  Saybrook 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  Indians.  A  number  of 
its  inhabitants  were  slain  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  and 
the  cows  sometimes  returned  from  the  pasture  with 
arrows  sticking  in  their  sides. 

By  1647,  while  the  population  was  still  less  than 
one  hundred,  a  church  was  erected.  Up  to  that  time 
the  meetings  had  been  held  in  what  the  records  speak 
of  as  "the  great  .hall"  of  the  fort.  The  church  stood 
at  one  end  of  a  public  square  called  "  The  Green." 
To  assemble  the  people  for  service  a  drum  was  beaten, 
and  it  was  voted  that  at  the  front  door  of  the  church 
should  be  "  a  gard  of  8  men  every  Sabbath  and 
Lecture-day  compleat  in  their  arms."  A  sentinel,  too, 


An   Historic  Town   in   Connecticut 


137 


was  stationed  on  a  turret  or  platform  built  on  the 
meeting-house  roof.  The  necessity  of  this  protection 
against  savage  assaults  is  seen  when  one  remembers 
that  an  average  of  over  fourscore  English  are  esti- 
mated to  have  been  slain  yearly  by  the  Indians  during 
the  first  half-century  of  Connecticut's  settlement. 


In  the  Old  Cemetery 

This  seems  distressing  enough,  but  from  an  Indian 
viewpoint  the  slaughter  was  far  worse  ;  tor  twenty  ot 
their  number  were  killed  to  one  of  the  whites. 

A  second  meeting-house  was  completed  in  1681 
near  the  site  of  the  first.  Of  this  structure  it  is  known 
that  the  seats  in  the  body  of  the  house  were  plain 
wooden  benches  assigned  to  members  ot  the  congrega- 


138  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

tion  according  to  age,  rank,  office,  and  estate.  Several 
leading  men  were  given  permission  to  build  square 
pews  against  the  walls  of  the  audience  room,  and  the 
minister's  family  had  a  square  pew  at  the  right  of  the 
pulpit.  The  pulpit  itself  was  a  high,  angular  construc- 
tion furnished  with  a  Geneva  Bible,  a  "Bay  Psalm 
Book,"  and  an  hour-glass  with  which  to  time  the  service. 
The  two  deacons  faced  the  congregation,  sitting  on  a 
seat  at  the  base  of  the  pulpit,  and  the  tithing-man, 
with  his  fox-tail  rod  of  office,  took  his  position  where 
he  could  best  oversee  the  behavior  of  the  worshippers. 
The  original  settlement  at  Saybrook  Point  about  the 
fort  gradually  overflowed  to  the  mainland,  until  pres- 
ently the  centre  of  population  and  chief  village  were  a 
mile  or  two  from  the  earlier  hamlet.  Thus,  when  the 
third  church  was  built,  in  1726,  at  a  cost  of  sixteen  hun- 
dred dollars,  a  new  and  more  generally  convenient  loca- 
tion was  chosen.  Until  near  the  end  of  the  century  this 
edifice  had  no  steeple  and  no  bell.  After  these  were 
added  it  was  customary,  down  to  1840,  to  ring  the  bell 
every  noon  to  announce  to  the  people  the  arrival  of  the 
dinner  hour.  The  bell  was  also  rung  during  the  winter 
at  nine  in  the  evening  as  a  notification  it  was  bedtime. 
Neither  of  the  previous  churches  were  ever  warmed,  nor 
was  this  for  more  than  one  hundred  years.  The  chief 
feature  of  the  interior  was  the  high  pulpit,  overhung 
by  a  huge  sounding-board,  both  much  elaborated  with 
panels  and  mouldings.  On  Sunday  the  pulpit  stairs 


An   Historic  Town  in   Connecticut  139 

were  filled  by  small  boys,  who  were  always  eager  to  get 
the  upper  step,  for  this  position  gave  the  occupant  the 
honor  of  opening  the  pulpit  door  to  the  minister  when 
he  ascended  to  his  place.  The  pews  were  square,  with 
seats  on  three  sides,  so  that  a  portion  of  the  worshippers 
sat  with  sides  or  backs  to  the  preacher.  A  wide,  heavy 
gallery  extended  clear  around  the  room  except  on  the 
north,  where  rose  the  pulpit.  The  east  wing  of  the 
gallery  was  exclusively  for  females,  the  west  for  males. 
The  front  tier  of  seats  was  reserved  for  the  singers. 
Behind  them,  on  the  south  side,  were  four  box  pews  re- 
garded by  many  as  most  desirable  sittings.  Some  of  the 
young  people  of  both  sexes  found  these  especially  attrac- 
tive, though  more  because  the  seclusion  was  adapted 
for  social  purposes  than  because  of  any  religious  ardor. 
Finally,  in  each  of  the  remote  rear  corners  of  the  gal- 
lery was  still  another  box  pew  for  the  occupancy  of  the 
colored  people,  who  were  not  allowed  to  sit  elsewhere. 
Perhaps  Saybrook's  strongest  appeal  to  fame  is  the 
fact  that  the  town  was  the  first  domicile  of  Yale  Uni- 
versity. It  was  characteristic  of  the  settlers  of  New 
England,  that  no  sooner  had  they  set  up  their  houses  on 
American  soil  than  they  began  to  make  provision  for  the 
education  of  their  children.  Not  content  with  estab- 
lishing primary  schools,  they  founded  Harvard  College 
within  seven  years  of  the  settlement  of  Boston.  Con- 
necticut, in  proportion  to  its  population  and  means, 
bore  its  full  share  in  Harvard's  support;  but  after  the 


140  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

lapse  of  some  fifty  years  the  people  of  the  colony  be- 
gan to  feel  the  need  of  having  a  collegiate  school  of 
their  own.  The  idea  took  definite  form  at  a  meeting 
of  Connecticut  pastors  in  September,  1701,  when  each 
one  present  made  a  gift  of  books  to  the  proposed 
college. 

The  infant  institution,  which,  in  honor  of  a  generous 
benefactor,  subsequently  took  the  name  of  Yale,  was 
thus  started,  and  shortly  a  citizen  of  Saybrook  gave  it 
the  use  of  a  house  and  lot.  This  house  was  quite 
sufficient,  for  during  the  first  six  months  the  college 
community  consisted  of  the  president  and  a  single 
student,  and  only  fifty-five  young  men  were  graduated 
in  fifteen  years.  The  trustees  were  far  from  unani- 
mous in  locating  the  college  at  Saybrook,  and  its 
affairs  continued  in  an  unsettled  state  until  1716,  when 
it  was  transferred  to  New  Haven.  The  change  was 
not  accomplished  without  turmoil,  a  curious  account 
of  which  is  found  in  the  Rev.  Samuel  Peters's  "General 
History  of  Connecticut,"  published  in  1781.  He 
says: — 

"A  vote  passed  at  Hartford,  to  remove  the  College 
to  Weathersfield  ;  and  another  at  Newhaven,  that  it 
should  be  removed  to  that  town.  Hartford,  in  order 
to  carry  its  vote  into  execution,  prepared  teams,  boats, 
and  a  mob,  and  privately  set  ofF  for  Saybrook,  and 
seized  upon  the  College  apparatus,  library  and  students, 
and  carried  all  to  Weathersfield.  This  redoubled  the 


CLEANING  UP  THE  BACK  YARD 


An   Historic  Town  in   Connecticut  141 

jealousy  of  the  saints  at  Newhaven,  who  thereupon 
determined  to  fulfil  their  vote  ;  and  accordingly,  having 
collected  a  mob  sufficient  for  the  enterprise,  they  set 
out  for  Weathersfield,  where  they  seized  by  surprise  the 
students,  library,  &c.  &c.  But  on  the  road  to  New- 
haven,  they  were  overtaken  by  the  Hartford  mob, 
who,  however,  after  an  unhappy  battle,  were  obliged 
to  retire  with  only  a  part  of  the  library  and  part  of  the 
students.  The  quarrel  increased  daily,  everybody 
expecting  a  war;  and  no  doubt  such  would  have  been 
the  case  had  not  the  peacemakers  of  Massachusetts 
Bay  interposed  with  their  usual  friendship,  and  advised 
their  dear  friends  of  Hartford  to  give  up  the  College 
to  Newhaven.  This  was  accordingly  done  to  the  great 
joy  of  the  crafty  Massachusetts,  who  always  greedily 
seek  their  own  prosperity,  though  it  ruin  their  best 
neighbors. 

"  The  College  being  thus  fixed  forty  miles  further 
west  from  Boston  than  it  was  before,  tended  greatly  to 
the  interest  of  Harvard  College ;  for  Saybrook  and 
Hartford,  out  of  pure  grief,  sent  their  sons  to  Harvard, 
instead  of  the  College  at  Newhaven." 

Another  anecdote  related  by  Mr.  Peters  has  to  do 
with  the  visit  of  the  evangelist  George  Whitefield  to 
Saybrook  in  1740.  "Time  not  having  destroyed  the 
walls  of  the  fort,"  says  the  narrative,  "  Mr.  Whitefield 
attempted  to  bring  them  down,  as  Joshua  brought 
down  the  walls  of  Jericho,  to  convince  the  gaping 


142  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

multitude  of  his  divine  mission.  He  walked  several 
times  round  the  fort  with  prayer,  and  rams'-horns 
blowing ;  he  called  on  the  angel  of  Joshua ;  but  the 
angel  was  deaf  or  on  a  journey  or  asleep,  and  therefore 
the  walls  remained.  Hereupon  George  cried  aloud  : 
4  This  town  is  accursed  for  not  receiving  the  messenger 
of  the  Lord ;  therefore  the  angel  is  departed  and  the 
walls  shall  stand  as  a  monument  of  sinful  people.' 
He  shook  off  the  dust  of  his  feet  against  them,  and 
departed." 

The  author  of  the  "  General  History  "  was  a  Royalist 
clergyman  driven  by  persecution  from  the  colonies 
early  in  the  Revolution.  He  writes  with  a  certain 
amount  of  sarcasm  and  bitterness,  yet  the  book  is 
by  no  means  wholly  condemnatory.  He  apparently 
attempts  to  be  fair,  though  his  own  experience  and  his 
affinity  with  the  English  Church  gives  a  bias  to  his 
opinions.  The  part  of  his  book  which  has  been  most 
severely  criticised  is  where  he  gives  a  list  of  Connecti- 
cut "  blue  laws,  that  is  bloody  laws,"  which  he  affirms 
were  strenuously  enforced  though  never  printed,  and 
those  who  transgressed  them  were  punished  with 
excommunication,  fines,  banishment,  whippings,  ear- 
cropping,  tongue-burning,  and  even  death.  I  quote 
only  a  few  of  these  alleged  blue  laws. 

"  No  one  shall  run  on  the  Sabbath-day,  or  walk  in 
his  garden  or  elsewhere,  except  reverently  to  and  from 
meeting. 


An   Historic  Town   in   Connecticut  143 

"  No  one  shall  kiss  her  child  on  the  Sabbath  or 
fasting-day. 

"  The  Sabbath  shall  begin  at  sunset  on  Saturday. 

"  Whoever  wears  cloathes  trimmed  with  gold,  silver, 
or  bone  lace,  above  two  shillings  by  the  yard,  shall  be 
presented  by  the  grand  jurors. 

"  A  debtor  in  prison,  swearing  he  has  no  estate  shall 
be  let  out  and  sold  to  make  satisfaction. 

"  Whoever  brings  cards  or  dice  into  this  dominion 
shall  pay  a  fine  of  5/. 

"  No  one  shall  read  Common-Prayer,  keep  Christ- 
mas or  Saints-days,  make  minced  pies,  dance,  play 
cards,  or  play  on  any  instrument  of  music,  except  the 
drum,  trumpet,  and  jewsharp. 

"  No  man  shall  court  a  maid  in  person,  or  by  letter, 
without  first  obtaining  the  consent  of  her  parents. 

"  Every  male  shall  have  his  hair  cut  round  according 
to  a  cap." 

This  last  law,  Mr.  Peters  says,  was  the  cause  of  all 
New  Englanders  being  given  the  nickname  of  "pump- 
kin-heads." It  frequently  was  convenient,  he  adds, 
when  caps  were  lacking,  to  substitute  the  hard  shell 
of  a  pumpkin,  "  which  being  put  on  the  head  every 
Saturday,  the  hair  is  cut  by  the  shell  all  round  the 
head."  The  author's  comment  is  that  there  is  much 
"prudence"  in  this  method  of  hair-trimming,  for:  "first, 
it  prevents  the  hair  from  snarling;  secondly,  it  saves 
the  use  of  combs,  bags,  and  ribbons  ;  thirdly,  the  hair 


144  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

cannot  incommode  the  eyes  by  falling  over  them  ;  and 
fourthly,  such  persons  as  have  lost  their  ears  for  heresy 
and  other  wickedness,  cannot  conceal  their  misfortune 
and  disgrace." 

Other  paragraphs  from  the  "General  History  "  pur- 
porting to  show  the  life  of  early  Connecticut  are 
these : — 

"  On  Saturday  evenings  the  people  look  sour  and 
sad ;  on  the  Sabbath  they  appear  to  have  lost  their 
dearest  friends,  and  are  almost  speechless ;  they 
walk  softly ;  they  even  observe  it  with  more  exact- 
ness than  did  the  Jews.  A  Quaker  preacher  told 
them  with  much  truth  that  they  worshipped  the  Sab- 
bath, and  not  the  God  of  the  Sabbath.  These  hos- 
pitable people,  without  charity,  condemned  the  Quaker 
as  a  blasphemer  of  the  holy  Sabbath,  fined,  tarred  and 
feathered  him,  put  a  rope  about  his  neck,  and  plunged 
him  into  the  sea,  but  he  escaped  with  life,  though  he 
was  about  seventy  years  of  age. 

"In  1750  an  Episcopal  clergyman,  born  and  edu- 
cated in  England,  who  had  been  in  holy  orders  above 
twenty  years,  once  broke  their  sabbatical  law  by  comb- 
ing a  discomposed  lock  of  hair  on  the  top  of  his  wig; 
at  another  time  for  making  a  humming  noise,  which 
they  call  whistling;  at  a  third,  by  running  into  church 
when  it  rained ;  at  a  fourth,  by  walking  in  his 
garden  and  picking  a  bunch  of  grapes:  for  which 
several  crimes  he  had  warrants  granted  against  him, 


An   Historic  Town  in   Connecticut  145 

was  seized,  brought  to  trial,  and  paid  a  considerable 
sum  of  money. 

"  Smuggling  is  rivetted  in  the  constitution  and 
practice  of  the  inhabitants  of  Connecticut  as  much  as 
superstition  and  religion,  and  their  province  is  a 
storehouse  for  the  smugglers  of  the  neighboring  col- 
onies. They  conscientiously  study  to  cheat  the  King 
of  those  duties  which  they  say  God  and  Nature  never 
intended  should  be  paid.  From  the  Governor  down 
to  the  tithing-man  who  are  sworn  to  support  the  laws, 
they  will  aid  smugglers,  resist  collectors,  and  mob 
informers." 

The  writer's  view  of  the  colonial  clergy  is  far  from 
flattering.  When  a  church  gives  a  man  a  call  and 
states  the  salary  and  other  inducements,  the  prospec- 
tive pastor,  "after  looking  round  him  and  finding  no 
better  terms  offered  from  any  other  parish,  answers  in 
this  manner,  '  Brethren  and  friends,  I  have  considered 
your  call,  and,  after  many  fastings  and  prayers,  I  find  it 
to  be  a  call  of  God,  and  close  with  your  offer.'  ' 

The  pastor's  manner  of  visiting  persons  who  are  ill 
is  described  thus  :  "  The  minister  demands  of  the  sick 
if  he  be  converted,  when,  and  where.  If  the  answer  is 
conformable  to  the  system  of  the  minister,  it  is  very 
well  ;  if  not,  the  sick  is  given  over  as  a  non-elect  and 
no  object  of  prayer.  Another  minister  is  then  sent 
for,  who  asks  the  sick  if  he  be  willing  to  die,  it  he  be 
willing  to  be  damned,  if  it  please  God  to  damn  him  ? 


146 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


Should  he  answer  No,  this  minister  quits  him,  as  the 
former.  Finally  the  sick  man  dies,  and  so  falls  out 
of  their  hands  into  better." 

In  all  this  a  touch  of  exaggeration  is  evident,  yet 
there  is  enough  of  fact  and  of  human  nature  behind 
it  to  make  the  reader  enjoy  its  spice,  and  the  narrative 
is  far  from  unpalatable  —  at  least  to  readers  who  are  not 
natives  of  Connecticut. 


The  Seaward  Marshlands 


VII 


A    JAUNT    ON     LONG    ISLAND 


Starting  the  Garden  Parsnips 


F 


ROM  New 
York,  one  hot 
day  in  May,  I 
journeyed  almost  the 
full  length  of  Long 
Island's  low  levels ; 
and  so  utterly  lacking 
were  hills  and  vales 
that  I  could  not  help 
fancying  the  entire 
isle  had  originally 
been  mere  mud  flats, 
the  delta  of  some 
great  river.  The  soil 
was  evidently  mellow 
and  easily  cultivated, 
and  I  had  glimpses 
from  the  car  windows 


of  many  prosperous-looking  market-garden  farms  ;  but 
not  less  characteristic  were  the   monotonous  stretches 


147 


148  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

of  waste  lands  growing  to  pines  and  scrubby  oaks. 
These  were  often  uninterrupted  for  miles,  and  when  a 
break  occurred,  it  was  only  to  allow  for  a  village  oasis 
with  a  ragged  skirting  of  fields,  and  then  the  dwarfish 
forest  swept  on  again.  The  woods  were  dry,  and  truant 
fires  were  burning  in  them,  sometimes  so  near  I  could 
see  the  low,  irregular  lines  of  the  flames,  sometimes 
distant  and  only  made  apparent  by  a  cloud-drift  of 
yellow  smoke. 

I  went  as  far  as  Easthampton,  a  place  I  had  selected 
for  my  destination  solely  because  I  had  heard  there 
were  windmills  in  or  near  it  —  not  our  ugly  modern 
ones,  with  angular  skeleton  frames  and  a  whirligig  of 
shutters  at  the  top,  but  those  of  the  portly  Dutch 
type,  that  spread  to  the  wind  long,  white-sailed  arms. 
To  harmonize  with  these  windmills  I  had  in  mind  an 
old-fashioned  rural  town,  in  whose  quiet  the  past  would 
seem  more  real  than  the  present.  I  was  disappointed. 
The  town  has  been  invaded  by  the  city  people,  and  is 
suburban  rather  than  rural,  and  the  old  survives  only 
in  nooks  and  corners  ;  and  yet  the  place  is  beautiful. 
It  has  a  straight,  broad,  two-mile  street,  lined  with  well- 
grown  elms,  and  where  the  early  town  centre  had  been 
the  street  widens  into  a  grassy  common.  The  sea  lies 
just  beyond  sight,  hidden  by  a  bulwark  of  dunes,  but 
its  muffled  roar  along  the  beach  can  be  distinctly  heard. 

The  common  at  one  end  dips  down  to  a  muddy 
pond,  and  on  the  steep,  short  slope  rising  east  of  the 


• 


A  LONC;  ISLAND  STILE 


A  Jaunt  on   Long  Island  149 

pond  is  a  cemetery  of  lowly  gray  stones.  As  soon  as 
you  pass  across  the  burial-ground  you  find  a  windmill 
—  a  great  octagon,  with  unpainted,  shingled  sides,  and 
four  wide-reaching  arms.  The  windwill  fulfilled  my 
ideal  very  satisfactorily,  and  its  situation  adjoining  the 
ancient  cemetery  was  charming.  All  it  lacked  was 
motion,  and  I  learned  with  regret  it  was  not  likely  to 
have  that  for  several  days. 

"  These  mills  don't  grind  much  but  hog  feed,"  said 
my  informant,  "  and  there  ain't  but  mighty  little  busi- 
ness doing  at  this  season.  The  West  raises  our  grain 
supplies  now  and  we  buy  'em  ready  ground,  but  the 
windmills  used  to  be  pretty  important  institutions. 
You  see  there  ain't  any  water-power  worth  mentioning 
in  this  flat  country,  and  in  the  old  advertisements  when 
a  place  was  for  sale  they'd  mention  how  far  it  was  from 
a  windmill,  just  as  they  would  at  present  from  the  post 
office  and  railroad." 

At  the  very  end  of  the  street  to  the  north  was 
another  windmill,  and  on  a  side  way  was  a  third,  minus 
arms,  while  a  fourth,  that  looked  outwardly  the  best 
of  all,  stood  in  the  back  yard  of  a  gentleman's  place. 
This  last  mill,  however,  was  only  a  delusion  —  a  fad  of 
its  city  owner.  It  was  naught  but  an  imitation  shell, 
fitted  up  to  serve  as  a  home  for  a  hired  man,  and  its 
great  arms  never  bore  sails,  nor  could  the  wind  coax 
them  into  motion  even  when  it  blew  a  hurricane. 

Of  the    evolution    of   the   town    into   what   it    is    at 


150  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

present  I  received  a  most  entertaining  view  from  a 
man  I  accosted  who  was  scratching  up  leaves  and  rub- 
bish by  the  path  side  in  front  of  his  premises  with 
a  rake.  He  was  in  no  haste,  and  talking  seemed  to 
suit  him  rather  better  than  the  work  in  hand. 

"  It's  twenty-seven  years  ago  that  the  first  city 
family  rented  a  house  here,"  said  he.  "  Now  the 
town  is  become  one  of  the  city  people's  resorts,  and 
it's  full  of  houses  they  have  either  put  up  or  that  they 
rent.  Their  houses  are  built  in  city  style,  and  the  old 
farm-houses  have  about  all  been  done  away  with  or  so 
made  over  you  wouldn't  know  'em.  Yes,  farming's 
dying  out,  and  I  expect  soon  you  won't  see  a  load  of 
manure  go  through  the  street  in  a  whole  season. 

"  The  original  inhabitants  find  themselves  swallowed 
up  in  the  deluge,  and  I  must  say  we're  a  little  dis- 
mayed at  the  transformation.  We're  old-fashioned 
enough  not  to  quite  like  it.  We  used  to  do  as  we 
pleased.  There  was  a  time  when,  if  we  thought  a 
person  needed  a  coat  of  tar  and  feathers,  we  saw  that 
he  had  it.  'Twouldn't  be  allowed  now.  The  city 
people  are  getting  so  that  they  direct  all  our  ways  — 
almost  tell  us  when  to  go  to  bed  and  when  to  get  up 
in  the  morning. 

"  I  rent  my  house  from  the  middle  of  June  to  the 
middle  of  October  for  six  hundred  dollars.  Some  o' 
the  neighbors  rent  theirs  for  less,  others  for  more,  even 
up  to  twenty-five  hundred.  I  have  to  move  out  when 


A  Jaunt  on   Long  Island  151 

the  city  folks  come,  but  that  little  house  you  see  in 
back  there  is  good  enough  for  me ;  and  I  sell  the 
renters  chickens,  eggs,  and  garden  truck,  and  it  ain't 
much  trouble  to  make  a  living.  There's  more  money 
in  renting  than  there  is  in  taking  boarders.  Boarding 
ain't  fashionable  here.  I'll  tell  you  why.  One  o' 
these  city  women  that  has  stopped  here  makes  a  call 
there  in  New  York,  and  says  she  spent  last  summer 
down  at  Easthampton. 

"  '  Did  you,  and  what  cottage  did  you  have  ? '  says 
the  other. 

" '  Oh,  we  didn't  have  a  cottage.     We  boarded.' 
"  *  M-m-m,  ah  !     Well,  you  needn't  call  any  more.' 
"  At  least  that's  what  it  amounts  to.    There's  a  good 
deal  of  caste  feeling,  and  renters  don't  want  to  associate 
too  freely  with  boarders.      I   expect  pretty  soon   they 
won't  go  in  bathing  here  on  the  beach  at  the  same  place. 
"  We've  had  a  great  excitement  in  the  town  the  last 

o 

few  months  over  a  kind  of  epidemic  of  sickness.  Our 
two  doctors  don't  agree  what  it  is,  and  one  of  'em  has 
doctored  for  typhoid  and  the  other  for  malaria.  Neither 
of  'em  has  lost  a  patient,  and  the  undertaker  has  been 
kicking  all  winter  because  the  people  didn't  die  faster 
—  said  he  couldn't  make  a  living  the  way  things  were 
going.  Well,  the  town  is  rent  in  twain,  and  each  doc- 
tor has  his  party.  There's  most  feeling  though  against 
the  typhoid  man.  You  see  the  promulgation  of  his 
theory  would  tend  to  keep  the  city  people  away. 


152  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

"  We  couldn't  stand  that.  They're  the  mainstay  of 
the  town,  because,  as  I  said,  farming's  pretty  much 
played  out.  It  used  to  be  different,  and  you  have  no 


On  Easthampton  Common 

idea  what  crops  we'd  raise.  The  soil's  nothing  to  brag 
of,  but  we'd  put  on  enormous  quantities  of  bunkers  ; 
that's  a  kind  of  fish —  I  suppose  you  know  what  they 
are.  We  could  go  down  to  the  sea  anywhere  and  drag 
in  our  seines  full  of  them  bunkers,  and  then  we'd  cover 
the  land  till  it  glistened  all  over  with  'em  ;  and  how 
they  would  stink  !  I  can  remember  times  when,  on  a 
hot  Sunday,  we'd  have  to  close  the  meeting-house 
windows  to  keep  out  the  stench. 

"I  wish  that  meeting-house  was  here  now.      It  was 


A  Jaunt  on    Long   Island  153 

a  handsome  old  church,  but  it  got  too  srriall,  and 
instead  of  enlarging  it,  they  must  build  a  new  one  in 
up-to-date  style.  You  can  see  the  doorstone  of  the  old 
church  yet,  embedded  in  the  sidewalk  down  below  here 
a  ways.  There's  a  curious  story  of  how  the  building 
happened  to  be  put  in  that  particular  place.  The 
townspeople  had  been  having  a  great  dispute  as  to 
where  it  should  stand,  and  they  couldn't  arrive  at  any 
agreement.  So  they  had  to  get  three  disinterested  men 
to  come  from  towns  around  to  decide.  It  was  winter, 
and  each  man  was  lodged  with  a  different  family. 
Well,  the  three  men  were  to  get  together  in  the  even- 
ing to  talk  over  the  matter  ;  and  after  supper,  about  the 
time  it  got  dark,  one  of  'em  sent  word  to  the  others 
where  they  were  to  meet  by  a  colored  girl  that  worked 
in  the  house  he  was  staying  at.  The  night  was  stormy 
—  snow  and  cold  and  a  high  wind  —  and  it  was  too 
much  for  the  girl.  They  found  her  next  day  dead  in 
a  drift,  and  on  the  spot  where  she  died  the  three  men 
decided  the  church  should  stand,  and  not  a  person 
in  town  dissented." 

At  this  point  in  my  companion's  discourse  a  young 
woman  came  along  and  accosted  him  with,  "  Oh,  father, 
where  do  you  think  I've  been  ?  ' 

"  I  don't  know.      Where  have  you  ?  "   said  he. 

"  Over  to  Mr.  Delancey's  house.  He  invited  me 
in  to  see  the  paper  he's  put  on  the  hall,  and  I  told  him 
just  what  I  thought.  '  I  ain't  stuck  on  it  at  all,'  I  said." 


154  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

"  This  gentleman  is  interested  in  old  times,"  re- 
marked her  father,  indicating  me. 

"Are  you?"  said  she.  "It's  too  bad  old  Lew 
Dudley  ain't  alive.  He  knew  more  about  old  times 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  town  put  together." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  would  have  talked  with  a  stran- 
ger, he  was  so  cranky,"  commented  the  father. 

"  He  was  a  queer  old  codger,"  continued  the  young 
woman,  "  and  he  got  worse  than  ever  in  his  later  years 
while  he  was  living  all  by  his  lone ;  and  what  a  man 
he  was  for  lawsuits !  He  never  could  do  business 
without  suing  to  get  his  rights.  Then  he  was  a  great 
hand  for  marrying.  Gee  !  it  was  astonishing  the  num- 
ber of  wives  he  had,  one  after  the  other.  Some  died 
and  some  got  divorced.  One  of  'em  died  when  I  was 

D 

a  little  girl,  and  I  remember  they  kept  the  body  a  week 
or  ten  days.  She  looked  so  natural  they  weren't  sure 
but  she  was  alive.  The  wife  he  had  last  didn't  stay 
with  him  only  by  spells.  She  was  a  city  woman,  and 
she  got  lonesome  here  and  had  to  go  off  to  New  York 
every  once  in  a  while,  to  keep  from  perishing.  They 
had  a  regular  cat  and  dog  time  of  it  anyway,  and  once 
Old  Lew  came  to  our  house  with  a  paper  he  wanted 
us  to  sign.  I  read  it  and  it  made  out  his  wife  was 
crazy,  and  I  said,  '  You  bring  a  paper  that  says  you're 
both  crazy,  and  I'll  sign  that  quick.'  Well,  I  must 
be  going." 

When  the  daughter  turned  away,  the  man  with  the 


A  Jaunt  on   Long  Island  155 

rake  pointed  to  a  fine  old  colonial  dwelling  not  far 
away,  high  in  front  and  low  behind,  with  a  great  chim- 
ney. "  That,"  said  he,  "  is  the  house  which  inspired 
'  Home,  Sweet  Home.'  It  is  the  birthplace  of  John 
Howard  Payne." 

I  looked  at  the  structure  more  closely,  later,  and 
found  its  air  of  repose  and  rustic  simplicity  quite  in 
accord  with  the  sentiment  of  the  famous  verses ;  but 
a  dwelling  that  interested  me  more  was  the  "  Dan 


The  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  House 

Watkins  House"  on  the  town  outskirts.  It  was 
ancient  and  gray,  with  shingled  sides  and  many  odd 
projections  and  angles.  In  the  dooryard,  amidst  other 
wreckage,  was  an  old  surf  boat  with  a  broken  prow. 
I  ventured  into  the  yard,  and  a  bevy  of  geese  sounded 
the  alarm.  When  I  did  not  retreat  thev  came  honk- 


156  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

ing  up  to  me,  and  the  gander  made  a  personal  exami- 
nation, nosing  me  over,  nibbling  at  my  shoes,  and 
showing  decided  marks  of  disapproval.  Behind  the 
house  was  a  long  garden  enclosed  by  a  shaky  picket 
fence.  As  I  approached,  a  tattered  old  man  rose  from 
his  knees,  where  he  had  been  carefully  sowing  with  his 
fingers  a  row  of  parsnips.  He  wore  spectacles  and 
had  a  white,  bushy  beard. 

"  Them  geese  ain't  very  polite,"  said  he.  "  They 
got  queer  ideas  o'  their  importance,  and  kind  o'  boss 
this  whole  place.  Sometimes  I  don't  know  whether  I 
keep  the  geese  or  they  keep  me.  There's  one  thing 
about  'em,  though  —  they're  better'n  any  watch-dog 
I  ever  see.  Can't  nobody  come  around  here  but  they 
know  it.  Take  it  the  middle  o'  the  night,  it's  just  the 
same.  Everything'll  be  all  quiet,  and  at  the  least  lit- 
tle noise  they'll  speak  right  out  as  if  they  were  awake 
all  the  time.  You  know  that  old  story  about  the  geese 
saving  Rome  from  the  enemy  by  giving  warning.  I 
ain't  a  bit  of  doubt  but  what  that  was  so." 

Where  the  man  was  at  work  he  had  a  line  stretched 
between  two  stakes  to  guide  him  in  making  his  rows 
straight.  He  had  been  putting  in  a  variety  of  seeds, 
and  at  the  end  of  each  little  plot  had  set  up  a  twig 
with  the  seed  envelope  on  top  to  indicate  what 
was  planted  there.  He  was  doing  a  very  neat  job. 
Through  the  middle  of  the  garden  ran  a  row  of  peren- 
nials—  rhubarb,  sage,  white  raspberries,  and  currants. 


A  Jaunt  on   Long   Island  157 

"  I  have  a  good  min'  to  root  out  those  currants,"  the 
old  man  remarked,  "  I'm  so  dretful  pestered  with 
the  worms.  I've  put  on  hellebore  till  I'm  tired,  and 
the  worms  get  the  best  of  me  every  year.  I  don't  care 
much  for  currants  anyway.  My  white  raspberries  1 
favor  more,  though  I  have  to  be  everlastingly  fightin' 
all  the  time  to  keep  'em  from  spreadin'  over  every- 
thing. They  furnish  me  all  the  berries  I  want  myself, 
and  I  let  the  neighbors  pick  'em,  too." 

"  I  suppose  your  house  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  town," 
said  I. 

"  Oh,  law,  no  !  This  is  a  new  house.  It  was  only 
built  one  hundred  and  forty  years  ago.  Easthampton's 
got  houses  two  hundred  years  old  and  over." 

He  had  come  out  of  the  garden  now  and  was  getting 
a  drink  at  his  pump.  This  pump  was  close  by  the 
back  door,  a  venerable  and  clumsy  affair  made  of 
white  ash  logs  which  he  affirmed  had  been  bored  and 
put  in  three-quarters  of  a  century  before.  "  I  don't 
want  anything  better'n  that  pump  and  that  water,"  he 
continued,  as  he  hung  the  tin  cup  back  on  its  nail. 
"  They're  talkin'  about  havin'  waterworks  with  pipes 
run  into  every  house,  but  I  won't  let  'em  come  in 
here." 

"  Have  you  a  farm  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"No,  I  ain't  a  farmer.  I'm  an  old  watchmaker; 
but  I  do  carpentering  and  other  things,  too;  and  there 
was  a  time  when  I  pulled  teeth  and  took  daguerro- 


158  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

types.  You  come  into  the  house  and  I'll  show  you 
where  I  work." 

He  conducted  me  first  to  a  black  little  room,  its 
sides  and  ceiling  lined  with  tools  and  pieces  of  wood 
and  iron  of  all  kinds,  the  gatherings  of  generations. 
Here  he  was  accustomed  to  labor  as  a  sort  of  Jack  of 
all  trades,  but  paid  special  attention  to  making  hickory 
axe-helves,  and  could  not  mention  machine-made  helves 
without  snorting  at  their  worthlessness. 

"  My  watch  business  I  do  at  the  other  end  of  the 
house,"  said  he,  and  led  the  way  through  several  low, 
wainscoted  rooms.  Finally  we  came  to  a  door  in  a 
room  corner,  and  this  door  was  so  narrow,  a  person 
inclined  to  stoutness  would  have  found  it  impassable. 
It  looked  as  if  it  might  give  access  to  some  secret  pas- 
sage, but  in  reality  it  opened  on  a  rough  little  entry 
from  which  we  stepped  into  the  tiniest  box  of  a  shop 
imaginable.  The  apartment  was  heated  by  a  small 
fireplace,  and  was  furnished  with  benches  and  shelves, 
a  stool  or  two,  and  a  miscellany  of  delicate  tools, 
watches,  and  pieces  of  clocks. 

"  When  I  was  a  young  man,"  confided  the  old 
watchmaker,  "  I  was  offered  big  wages  and  a  place  in  a 
large  jewellery  store  ;  but  I  don't  want  to  be  tied  to  any 
one.  Here  I  can  work  or  not  as  I  darn  please,  and  it 
suits  me." 

Among  other  things  he  showed  an  oddly  decorated 
gold-faced  watch  which  he  said  had  belonged  to  his 


A  Jaunt  on   Long   Island 


An  Old-fashioned  Sitting  Room 

uncle,  the  captain  of  a  Sag  Harbor  whaling  vessel. 
His  mention  of  the  old  port  reminded  me  that  it  was 
not  far  distant  —  only  seven  miles  —  and  I  determined 
to  see  it.  Accordingly,  on  the  following  morning,  I 


160  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

hired  a  buggy  for  conveyance  and  a  boy  to  drive  me 
over.  The  road  was  the  sandiest,  ruttiest,  and  dustiest 
I  have  ever  travelled,  and  I  would  have  fancied  it  never 
received  any  attention,  had  we  not  come  across  an  old 
Irishman  laboriously  digging  out  turf  from  the  wayside 
and  heaving  it  into  the  wheel  tracks.  He  adjusted  the 
turf  as  he  went  along  into  a  hummocky  causeway  that 
all  teams  scrupulously  avoided. 

Nearly  our  whole  journey  was  through  a  desolation 
of  burnt  woods.  The  oaks  were  all  stark  dead,  but 
the  pines  had  withstood  the  fire  better,  probably 
because  there  was  less  around  their  bases  for  the  flames 
to  lick  up.  The  fire  had  occurred  the  previous  year, 
and  my  driver  had  gone  to  it.  He  never  wanted  to 
go  to  another.  It  used  him  up.  The  wind  blew  and 
the  fire  leaped  the  roadways  and  went  as  fast  as  a  man 
could  run.  They  had  hard  work  saving  the  farm-houses 
in  and  near  the  woods. 

Some  of  the  districts  on  the  route  had  such  names  as 
Hardscrabble  and  Snooksville  and  these  names  seemed 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  nature  of  the  road.  It  was  a 
main  highway,  yet  it  was  one  of  those  privately-owned 
mementos  of  the  past  —  a  toll-road,  and  we  had  to 
stop  at  a  wayside  cabin  guarding  a  gate,  and  pay 
seven  cents  for  driving  over  its  purgatory.  The  gate 
was  hung  on  a  post  opposite  the  door  in  the  house 
where  the  toll  was  collected.  I  noticed  it  was  open 
when  we  approached,  and  that  there  was  no  sign 


A  Jaunt  on    Long   Island 


161 


of  closing  it  after  we  had  driven  on.  My  idea  had 
been  that  toll-gates  were  ordinarily  kept  shut,  and 
only  opened  to  allow  travellers  to  pass  after  they  had 
paid  toll. 

"  No,"  said  my  driver,  "  it's  open  all  the  time 
except  it  might  be  when  a  tough  customer  comes 
along  that  they  think  likely'll  kick  up  a  row.  It's 
open  all  night,  too,  and  if  the  toll-gate  people  have 
gone  to  bed  you  just  drive  through  without  paying." 


A  Toll-gate  on  a  Seven  Cent  Road 

Presently  we  reached  Sag  Harbor,  and  my  driver 
turned  back,  while  I  started  out  for  a  ramble  about 
the  town.  The  days  of  the  whale  fishery  were  Sag 
Harbor's  golden  period.  Since  then  it  has  never 


1 6i  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

amounted  to  much.  Still,  it  appeared  to  me  fairly 
prosperous  and  its  houses  comfortable  and  well  kept. 
I  only  observed  one  relic  of  the  old  days  that  seemed 
melancholy  —  a  stately  mansion  heavily  shadowed  by 
trees.  It  was  of  the  Greek  temple  style,  with  a  lofty, 
pillared  front ;  but  its  glory  had  long  since  departed, 
and  it  was  now  dingy  and  out  of  repair,  and  had  a 
mildewed,  ghostly  look  as  if  a  blight  was  on  it. 

A  short  distance  beyond,  on  the  same  street,  a  tall, 
bony  old  man  was  working  at  a  large  buttonball  tree 
he  had  cut  down.  It  had  fallen  across  the  highway  and 
the  top  reached  the  opposite  curbing.  As  the  man 
chopped  off  the  branches  he  trimmed  the  brush  from 
each  in  turn,  and  seemed  quite  oblivious  to  any  need 
of  haste  in  opening  the  street  to  traffic.  Some  teams 
turned  around  and  sought  another  thoroughfare  ;  others 
joggled  up  over  the  curbing  and  drove  along  on  the 
sidewalk.  After  a  while  a  man  approached  with  a  load 
of  brick.  He  alighted  and  came  to  look  at  the  debris. 
The  axeman  was  pecking  away  at  the  brush. 

"  See  here,  Uncle  Matthew,"  said  the  newcomer, 
"  why  don't  you  cut  off  these  top  branches  so  teams 
can  go  past  ?  " 

"  Wai,  I'm  agoin'  tew." 

"  But  you  no  need  to  trim  all  the  brush  first." 

"  Naow,  look  a'  here,  I'm  adewin'  of  this  job,  ain't 
I  ?  If  you're  in  a  hurry,  drive  along  on  the  sidewalk 
same  as  other  folks  dew." 


A  Jaunt  on   Long  Island  163 

"  But  I  got  a  ton  and  a  half  o'  brick  on." 

"  That  don't  make  no  dif'rence." 

"  It'd  smash  my  wagon  all  to  flinders.  I'll  take 
hold  here  and  help,  and  you  can  make  a  road  through 
inside  o'  five  minutes." 

The  man  began  to  pull  some  of  the  small  limbs  to 
one  side. 

"  Naow,  yew  jes'  stop  that  air,"  exclaimed  Uncle 
Matthew.  "  Yew're  mixin'  everythin'  all  up.  Yew 
ac'  like  yew  was  crazy." 

The  two  were  still  disputing  when  I  left,  but  Uncle 
Matthew  was  having  his  way.  I  went  down  to  the 
harbor.  A  single  long  wharf  reached  out  into  its 
tranquil  waters,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  its  ever  being 
enlivened  by  much  traffic.  I  wandered  along  the 
shore  with  its  drift  deposits  of  seaweed  and  shells.  At 
one  place  two  men  were  overhauling  a  net  with  the 
intention  of  going  out  to  drag  it  toward  evening.  At 
another  were  several  children  playing  in  the  sand  and 
half  burying  themselves  in  it.  They  had  been  wading 
in  the  shallows  and  fishing  with  tackle  improvised  from 
willow  rods,  string,  and  bent  pins.  One  boy  had 
boasted  he  dared  wade  out  farther  than  the  others,  and 
he  had  tripped  and  ducked  in  all  over.  His  jacket 
was  spread  out  to  dry  on  the  sand,  and  he  was  shiver- 
ing in  the  wind. 

I  had  been  disappointed  in  not  finding  the  Kast- 
hampton  windmills  at  work,  and  when  a  Sag  Harborite 


164  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

acquaintance  informed  me  that  a  mill  at  Bridgehamp- 
ton  was  usually  busy  the  year  round,  I  departed  in 
search  of  it  on  the  next  train.  Like  most  of  the  old 
shore  towns,  Bridgehampton  is  a  resort  of  the  city 
summer  people  to  the  loss  of  much  of  its  rural  charac- 
ter. However,  two  white  churches  of  the  old  regime 
remain,  and,  on  the  village  borders,  are  farm-houses 
not  yet  spoiled  by  modern  quirks  in  architectural  im- 
provement or  distortion.  Some  of  these  outlying 
houses  were  in  themselves  and  all  their  surroundings 
hardly  changed  from  what  was  usual  fifty  years  ago. 
They  have  retained  the  big  chimneys,  and  the  small- 
paned  windows,  the  yards  are  enclosed  by  lichened 
quarter-board  or  picket  fences,  and  the  hens  are  always 
lingering  close  about  the  house  and  scratching  holes 
under  the  shrubbery. 

An  old  dwelling  of  this  sort  has  a  small  front  yard 
with  a  path  running  straight  down  the  middle  from  the 
front  door  to  the  gate,  and  it  has  a  big  side  yard  with 
a  narrow  gate  for  pedestrians  that  is  more  or  less  dis- 
regarded, and  a  wide  gate  for  wagons.  In  the  workaday 
larger  yard  is  not  a  little  of  the  paraphernalia  of  labor 
in  the  form  of  machines  and  vehicles,  especially  those 
whose  best  days  are  past,  and  there  are  piles  of  wood, 
and  very  likely  a  few  score  chestnut  fence  posts  with 
holes  cut  in  them  for  the  insertion  of  rails.  Conven- 
iently near  the  kitchen  door  is  pretty  sure  to  be  a  well 
and  a  pump  with  a  line  of  trough  extending  toward 
the  barn-yard. 


*£**** 


^-xV-^-^^W 

:  ^^iif^^^. 


MAKING  FENCE  POSTS 


A  Jaunt  on   Long  Island  165 

The  old  mill  that  I  had  come  to  seek  I  presently 
found  ;  and  though  the  arms  were  bare  and  the  ma- 
chinery silent,  I  was  encouraged  to  discover  the  door 
open.  I  went  in  and  sat  down  on  some  bags.  It  was 
a  dusty,  cobwebby  structure  knitted  stoutly  together 
with  great  beams  and  a  multitude  of  braces  and  cross- 
pieces.  While  I  was  looking  about  and  accustoming 
my  eyes  to  the  gloom,  a  man  entered  the  door. 

"  Ah,  ha  !  now  I've  ketched  ye,"  he  said  ;  but  his 
tones  were  not  as  alarming  as  his  words,  and  I  was 
welcome. 

He  was  just  about  to  start  the  mill.  The  day  had 
been  too  quiet  earlier,  but  the  wind  was  now  freshen- 
ing. A  wide  platform  encircled  the  structure,  and, 
standing  on  that,  the  miller  one  by  one  unfurled  the 
canvas  sails  rolled  up  on  the  slatted  arms  and  fastened 
them  in  position.  Then  he  let  the  arms  free  and  they 
began  to  revolve  and  started  the  millstones  to  grinding 
the  corn,  while  he  went  inside  and  stood  fondling  the 
meal  in  his  hand  as  it  came  sifting  down  the  spout 
from  above. 

The  mill  had  four  stones.  In  the  second  were  the 
hoppers  ;  the  third  was  for  storage,  and  the  topmost, 
a  greasy  place  up  in  the  revolving  cap,  was  nearly 
filled  by  the  big  wooden  wheels,  shafts,  and  brakes. 
How  its  upper  portions  did  creak  and  shake  !  I  could 
appreciate  the  necessity  for  the  strong  sinews  of  heavy 
and  close-set  timbers.  Only  one  of  the  two  pairs  of 


1 66  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

millstones  was    employed    to-day,  for   there  was    not 
much  grist ;  but  both  were  busy  all  through  the  winter, 


A  Windmiller 


and  even  then  they  failed  to  keep  up  with  orders,  and 
the  miller  said  he  sometimes  had  three  hundred  bushels 


A  Jaunt  on   Long   Island 


167 


ahead  of  him.  The  arms  measured  sixty-eight  feet  from 
tip  to  tip,  and  were  capable  of  developing  energy  to 
the  amount  of  forty  horse-power.  It  takes  a  fair 
breeze  to  set  them  in  effective  motion  ;  and  yet,  in  a 
gale,  they  will  grind  without  sails. 

I  loitered  for  hours  in  and  about  the  old  mill,  explor- 
ing the  interior  and  watching  from  the  fields  the  stately 
revolutions  of  its  white  arms  ;  and  I  came  away  satisfied, 
and  left  Long  Island  with  the  feeling  that  its  ancient 
windmills  constitute  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
features  in  architecture  to  be  found  in  all  America. 


VIII 


LIFE    ON    A    GREEN    MOUNTAIN    TOP 


Tinkering  the  Road 


WHATEVER 
road  you 
travel  in  the 
remote  New  England 
town  of  Norton  you 
are  in  the  woods.  Oc- 
casionally you  come 
on  a  little  farm  in  a 
stony  clearing,  but  the 
diminutive  fields  are 
soon  passed  and  then 
the  interminable  for- 
est closes  in  again.  A 
narrow-gauge  railroad 
touches  the  eastern 
borders  of  the  town, 
yet  it  does  not  affect 
the  town  life  per- 
ceptibly, for  it  winds 
through  a  deep  valley 


168 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  169 

a  thousand  feet  below  the  level  of  the  scattered  homes, 
and  the  highway  that  climbs  up  from  the  valley  is  a 
zigzag  of  the  steepest  sort  which  the  mountain  folk 
themselves  avoid  when  they  can.  This  road  gullies 
badly  in  rains,  and  now  and  then  portions  of  the  bank 
on  one  side  or  the  other  slide  down  in  the  wheel-tracks, 
bringing  with  them  a  clump  of  trees  and  bushes  that 
have  to  be  cut  away  before  the  road  is  passable. 

If  you  go  westerly  over  the  range  on  whose  top  lies 
the  town,  you  find  another  railroad  and  the  large  manu- 
facturing village  of  Milldale,  but  it  is  a  long  distance 
thither,  and  the  descent  from  the  uplands  is  almost  as 
violently  steep  as  that  on  the  east.  To  the  north  and 
south  the  routes  are  gentler,  but  these  only  conduct 
you  to  other  little  woodland  towns  situated,  like  Norton, 
on  the  broad  mountain  summit;  and  you  toil  over  a 
never-ending  upheaval  of  hills  by  roads  often  precipi- 
tous and  stony,  and  interrupted  by  countless  thank- 
you-marms. 

Norton  township  contains  no  village.  It  has  not 
even  a  store.  The  post-office  is  in  a  farm-house,  and 
there  are  three  mails  a  week.  The  butcher,  the  baker, 
and  the  grocer  make  no  rounds  and  most  of  the  trad- 
ing is  done  at  Milldale;  yet  the  hard  journey  to  the 
valley  is  undertaken  so  seldom  that  whoever  drives 
down  is  pretty  sure  to  be  intrusted  with  many  errands 
by  the  neighbors.  The  town  hall  at  Norton  is  in  the 
heart  of  the  woods,  hemmed  in  on  every  side,  and  there 


170  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

is  no  other  building  in  sight.  A  mile  farther  on  is  the 
church,  on  the  borders  of  a  very  considerable  open  that 
forms  the  domain  of  a  lone  farm-house  just  over  a  ridge 
out  of  sight. 

The  town  has  two  widely  separated  schoolhouses  — 
the  "  White  "  and  the  "  Holler."  The  former  is  on  a 
hilltop  where  four  roads  meet.  For  ten  or  fifteen  years 
the  building  has  been  painted  brown,  but  previously  it 
had  always  been  white,  and  the  name  has  remained, 
though  the  color  has  changed.  It  is  snuggled  in  the 
edge  of  a  bushy  wood,  facing  some  ragged  pastures 
and  cultivated  fields.  Close  by  is  a  neglected  cemetery, 
full  of  tottering  and  fallen  stones,  which  nature  is  fast 
enveloping  in  weeds  and  bushes,  and  down  the  hill  are 
two  houses.  From  the  height  where  the  school  build- 
ing is  perched  can  be  seen  several  other  cleared  patches 
amid  the  forest  and  a  number  of  homes  —  "  Martin's, 
Jake's,  Dan's,  Elihu's,"  etc.  The  mountain  people 
do  not  use  surnames,  nor  on  ordinary  occasions  do  they 
have  use  for  Mr.,  Mrs.,  or  Miss.  When  a  recent 
teacher  from  a  distance  took  charge  of  the  "  Holler  " 
schoolhouse,  and,  unwitting  of  the  ways  of  the  hill 
folks,  addressed  certain  of  the  girls  who  were  as  large, 
if  not  as  old,  as  she,  with  the  prefix  of  Miss,  they  were 
offended.  It  seemed  to  them  she  was  putting  on 
airs. 

The  Holler  schoolhouse  is  buried  much  more  com- 
pletely in  the  woods  than  the  White  schoolhouse.  The 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  171 

wild  berry  vines  and  the  bushes  have  overgrown  all  the 
space  about  except  a  narrow  strip  in  front  next  the  road. 


At  the  Schoolhouse  Door 


Immediately  beyond  the  highway  is  a  swift,  noisy  little 
river,  and  beyond  that  the  forest  again.     The  children 


172  New   England  and  its   Neighbors 

are  very  fond  of  the  stream,  and,  during  the  barefoot 
days  of  warm  weather  they  are  always  wading  and  pad- 
dling about  in  it.  The  bottom  is  full  of  slippery  stones, 
and  not  infrequently  a  child  will  souse  in  all  over  and 
have  to  go  home  to  dry  off. 

The  teacher  sweeps  out  after  school,  and  she  comes 
early  enough  in  the  morning  to  start  the  fire,  though 
it  has  sometimes  happened,  when  she  was  later  than 
usual,  that  the  boys  have  crawled  in  through  a  window 
and  started  it.  The  windows  are  supposed  to  be  fast- 
ened, but  as  the  fastening  consists  of  nails  the  teacher 
sticks  in  above  the  sash,  an  entrance  is  easily  forced. 
The  teacher  boards  a  mile  up  the  river,  and  the  road 
she  traverses  is  for  the  whole  distance  through  the 
damp,  cool  woods  with  the  crystal  trout  stream  singing 
along  beside  it.  She  has  to  carry  her  dinner,  as  do  all 
her  scholars,  for  none  of  them  live  near  enough  to  go 
home  at  noon. 

Norton's  wealth,  such  as  it  is,  depends  almost  entirely 
on  forest  craft;  and  the  chief  factor  in  determining  the 
worth  of  a  farm  is  the  character  of  its  woodland.  Spruce 
is  the  most  valuable  timber,  with  fir,  or  "  balsam  "  as 
it  is  called,  pine,  and  hemlock  following  after.  Beech 
and  maple  are  plenty,  but  the  price  hardwood  brings 
scarcely  repays  the  expense  of  getting  it  out.  As  for 
cord  wood,  large  towns  are  too  far  distant  to  allow  its 
profitable  marketing.  Of  the  crops  that  can  be  grown, 
potatoes  seem  best  adapted  to  the  mountain  soil,  but 


Life  on  a  Green    Mountain  Top  173 

the  ground  is  rough  and  inclined  to  bogginess.  Worst 
of  all,  it  is  full  of  stones,  and  though  vast  quantities  are 
carted  off  and  dumped  out  of  the  way  or  made  into 
stone  walls  the  plough  every  year  brings  up  more. 
Where  a  ledge  is  encountered,  or  a  boulder  too  large 
to  move,  cairns  of  loose  stones  are  likely  to  be  piled 
around  it,  and  among  the  debris  grow  clumps  of  bushes 
and  perhaps  a  wild  apple  tree  or  two. 

Few  of  the  upland  inhabitants  seemed  to  be  admirers 
of  their  environment.  In  the  words  of  one  of  them, 
who  declared  he  expressed  the  general  opinion,  "It's 
a  poor  place,  poor  homes,  poor  everything,  and  the 
people  here  now  are  only  waiting  tor  a  decent  chance  to 
sell  out  and  get  away." 

But  buyers  are  scarce,  and  it  has  to  be  a  farm  of 
exceptional  merits  that  will  bring  more  than  a  thou- 
sand dollars  with  the  house  and  barn  thrown  in.  One 
of  the  latest  sales  was  of  a  place  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  acres.  Some  good  woodland  was  included,  but 
the  buildings  were  practically  worthless.  It  was  sold 
for  taxes,  which  at  the  rate  of  two  and  one-fourth  per 
cent  had  accumulated  until  the  whole  amounted  to  sixty 
dollars.  When  these  had  been  deducted  from  the  sum 
realized,  and  a  three  hundred  dollar  mortgage  had  been 
liquidated,  only  forty  dollars  remained. 

In  accord  with  the  mountains'  most  flourishing 
industry,  sawmills  occur  at  intervals  on  every  vigor- 
ous stream  —  weatherworn,  unpainted  structures  with 


174  New   England  and   its  Neighbors 


A  Trout  Scream 

a  great  penstock  bringing  water  from  the  dam  above, 
and  round  about  them  a  chaos  of  logs,  piles  of  boards, 
slabs,  sawdust,  and  rubbish.  Sometimes  this  litter  of 
lumber  does  not  keep  to  the  mill  site,  but  is  strewn 
along  the  road  for  half  a  mile. 


Life  on  a   Green    Mountain   Top  175 

While  I  was  in  Norton  a  portable  sawmill  was  set 
up  far  back  from  the  highway  in  the  woods,  and  one 
dull  morning  I  paid  it  a  visit.  The  mist  enveloped 
the  uplands  and  made  the  forest  vistas  soft  and 
mysterious.  It  was  the  first  of  June,  and  in  the  wet 
ravine  were  lady's-slippers  coming  into  bloom,  and 
there  were  enough  Jack-in-the-pulpits  along  the  forest 
path  1  followed  to  supply  all  the  vernal  congregations 
for  miles  around.  Where  the  woods  had  been  cut  off 
were  sometimes  jungles  of  high-bush  blackberries,  or 
thickets  of  wild  cherry  snowed  over  with  blossoms  ;  but 
the  ordinary  undergrowth  was  apt  to  be  largely  com- 
posed of  hobble-bush,  whose  straggling  branches,  with 
their  tendency  to  form  loops  by  taking  root,  give  the 
bush  its  name  and  make  it  a  great  nuisance  to  the 
lumbermen.  It  was  still  full  of  white  flower  clusters, 
though  these  were  past  their  prime. 

In  a  mountain  hollow,  which  a  long-undisturbed 
spruce  wood  kept  in  high-columned  twilight,  I  found 
the  sawmill.  It  was  a  rude  framework,  with  a  broad 
roof  over  the  portion  that  contained  the  engine.  Work 
had  just  begun,  and  as  yet  only  a  small  space  right  about 
the  mill  had  been  cleared,  but  the  whole  tract  would  be 
laid  low  and  sawed  during  the  summer.  After  the 
lumbermen  had  finished,  the  land  would  be  valueless, 
unless  some  farmer  would  give  a  few  dollars  for  it  with 
the  idea  of  burning  the  brush,  and  converting  the  de- 
nuded forest  into  pasturage.  With  the  fine  growth  of 


176    .         New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

spruce  still  standing  it  was  worth  sixty  or  seventy  dol- 
lars an  acre,  which  was  probably  as  much  as  any  tract 
in  town  would  bring,  and  certainly  exceeded  by  far  the 
worth  of  any  cultivated  farm  land. 

When  I  left  the  sawmill  in  the  woods  I  took  another 
route  than  that  by  which  I  came,  and  presently  walked 
out  into  a  rough  pasture.  There  I  met  a  barefoot  little 
girl  going  homeward,  with  her  hands  full  of  painted 
trillium  —  "  pappooses,"  she  called  them.  We  went 
on  together,  and  after  I  had  to  some  extent  succeeded 
in  overcoming  her  shyness,  she  told  me  the  names  of 
the  flowers  we  saw  along  the  way,  among  the  rest 
"  swamp  cheese,"  foam  flower,  white  and  blue  violets, 
and  "  shads,"  more  familiar  to  me  as  "  shad-blows." 
The  first  of  the  list  was  the  azalea,  as  yet  only  in 
bud. 

I  asked  the  little  girl  if  she  liked  living  in  Norton, 
and  she  replied  she  did  ;  but  she  knew  very  little  about 
other  places.  Once  her  father  had  taken  her  and  her 
brother  to  the  circus  in  Milldale,  and  it  was  plain  from 
what  she  said  that  both  the  circus  and  the  town  itself  had 
seemed  quite  wonderful.  The  numerous  houses,  the 
many  streets,  and  the  crowds  of  people,  however,  were 
bewildering ;  and  she  was  glad  when  they  got  home 
after  a  long  night  drive  up  the  mountain  and  through 
the  dark  woods. 

"  Would  you  like  a  cud  of  gum  ? "  inquired  the  girl 
at  length,  fumbling  in  her  pocket  and  producing  several 


Life  on  a  Green    Mountain   Top  177 

brown  lumps.     "  I  got  it  off  a  spruce  tree  near  where  I 
picked  the  pappooses." 

"  Does  every  one  call  the  gum  they  chew  a  cud  ?  "  I 
questioned. 

"  No,  some  say  a  chaw,  and  some  say  a  quid,  but  the 
children  at  school  mostly  says  a  cud." 

"What  is  that  bird  we  hear  singing  now  —  or  whis- 
tling—  one  low  note  and  several  high  notes  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  A  fiddler  bird,  the  teacher  calls  it,"  was  the  re- 
ponse.  "  Teacher  says  it  says, c  Here  I  come  fiddling, 
fiddling';  and  the  children  at  school  they  say  it  says, 
'  Rejoice  and  be  glad,'  and  teacher  says  the  robins  say, 
'  Ephraim  Gillet,  the  sky  is  skillet,  scour  it  bright,  scour 
it  clean.'  ' 

The  fiddler  bird,  or  white-throated  sparrow,  to  which 
we  had  been  listening,  visits  most  parts  of  New  England 
only  in  its  spring  and  autumn  migrations,  but  it  is  a 
summer  bird  in  the  mountains,  and  I  often  heard  its 
ringing  whistle.  Some  fancy  it  cries,  "I,  I,  peabody, 
peabody,"  whence  comes  still  another  of  its  names  — 
peabody  bird.  None  of  our  songsters  has  a  call  more 
powerful  and  individual. 

My  companion  informed  me  she  had  looked  out 
the  back  door  early  that  morning,  and  a  deer  was 
feeding  in  plain  view  on  the  edge  of  the  woods.  This 
seemed  a  very  natural  incident  when  I  saw  the  situa- 
tion of  the  house.  It  was  a  little  brown  dwelling,  amid 
some  meagre,  forest-girded  fields,  and  was  out  ot  sight 


1 78  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

of  all  travel,  at  the  end  of  a  grassy  byway.  The  seclu- 
sion was  complete.  There  were  only  three  in  the  fam- 
ily, and  I  found  the  other  two  members  —  the  father 
and  a  small  boy  —  loading  a  wagon  with  evergreen 
boughs  that  had  been  piled  about  the  base  of  the 
house  during  the  winter  to  keep  out  the  cold. 

I  spoke  with  them,  and  after  a  short  chat  the  man 
suggested  we  should  go  indoors.  Accordingly  we 
adjourned  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  spent  an  hour 
entertaining  me.  The  room  was  in  much  disorder. 
There  was  litter  and  grime  everywhere,  and  the 
remains  of  the  breakfast  and  the  unwashed  dishes 
were  still  on  the  table,  although  it  was  nearly  noon. 
The  ceiling  was  stained  with  leakage,  and  two  or  three 
great  patches  of  plastering  had  fallen,  while  the  floor 
was  uneven,  and  so  worn  that  the  knots  and  nails 
stood  up  in  warty  eminences  all  over  it.  Through  an 
open  door  at  the  rear  of  the  kitchen  I  could  see  out  into 
a  shed  —  a  gloomy  apartment,  hung  about  with  gar- 
ments and  rags,  pieces  of  harness,  tools,  and  accumu- 
lations of  household  wreckage.  Under  foot  was  a 
scattering  of  stove  wood,  mostly  tough  and  knotty 
sticks,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  escaped  the  fire 
because  they  resisted  splitting  so  strenuously.  Horace 
Stogy  —  that  was  my  host's  name  —  was  not  a  very 
forehanded  farmer,  and  if  he  had  sufficient  stove  wood 
for  immediate  needs  he  took  no  anxious  thought  for 
the  morrow. 


THE  FIDDLER 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  179 

Mr.  Stogy  proved  to  be  a  musical  enthusiast,  and 
soon  produced  a  beloved  "fiddle"  to  show  me.  It 
was  a  really  fine  instrument,  and  he  played  it  with 
delicacy  and  feeling.  He  also  possessed  a  piano  — 
the  only  one  in  town.  It  stood  next  the  kitchen  sink, 
with  its  legs  protected  from  damage  by  newspapers 
tied  around  them.  Some  of  the  strings  were  broken, 
Mr.  Stogy  said,  and  he  did  not  use  it  much  anyway. 
His  wife,  when  she  was  alive,  was  quite  a  hand  to  play 
on  it,  but  he  was  no  pianist  himself,  and  only  "  played 
chords,"  an  accomplishment  which  I  found  was  com- 
mon among  the  mountain  folks  in  such  houses  as  had 
an  organ  in  the  sitting  room.  It  consisted  in  fingering 
a  tune  by  ear  and  striking  keys  which  were  in  har- 
mony with  the  air,  though  entirely  independent  of  the 
printed  notes. 

During  the  winter  Mr.  Stogy  was  in  considerable 
demand  to  furnish  music  at  the  dances.  For  his 
services  he  received  three  or  four  dollars  each  time. 
The  participants  in  the  dances  were  apt  to  be  of  the 
ruder  sort,  and  there  was  some  drinking  and  roister- 
ing, and  the  parties  did  not  break  up  until  the  gray 
light  of  morning  began  to  steal  across  the  snowy 
uplands.  Serious-minded  church  members  kept  aloof 
from  this  form  of  merrymaking ;  "but  I  can  tell  you," 
was  one  person's  comment,  "  if  they  was  to  go  they'd 
hurt  the  dances  a  good  deal  more  than  the  dances 
would  hurt  them." 


180  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

Nearly  all  the  homes  I  saw  in  Norton  were  in 
many  ways  akin  to  Mr.  Stogy's.  There  was  very  little 
care  about  appearances.  Few  of  them  were  painted, 
and  dilapidation  was  not  by  any  means  uncharacteristic 
of  the  majority.  The  surroundings  were  unsightly, 
and  rubbish  gathered  where  it  would.  Barns  and 
sheds  were  rarely  substantial.  Usually  they  were 
loosely  constructed,  and  had  a  tendency  to  totter  into 
early  ruin.  Some  of  the  houses  had  the  stagings  on 
the  roofs  that  had  been  there  ever  since  they  were  last 
shingled,  years  before.  This  looked  shiftless,  though 
I  must  confess  the  stagings  might  be  convenient  when 
the  time  came  to  shingle  again. 

The  only  new  house  I  observed  was  one  started  a 
year  or  two  previously  that  had  come  to  a  stop  half 
done ;  but  whether  its  owner  desisted  because  he  had 
exhausted  his  energy  or  his  credit,  I  did  not  learn. 
The  ground  around  was  upheaved  just  as  it  had  been 
left  when  the  cellar  was  dug.  The  roof  was  on  and 
the  sheathing,  but  the  building  was  not  clapboarded, 
and  no  lathing  or  plastering  had  been  done  inside. 
Yet  the  family  had  moved  in  and  had  taken  as  a 
boarder  the  teacher  of  the  "  White  "  schoolhouse  that 
is  painted  brown.  A  well-worn  path  led  from  the 
dwelling  down  to  a  stream  in  the  hollow,  a  few  rods 
distant,  where  there  was  a  dipping-place,  and  thence 
was  brought  the  household  supply  of  water.  At  most 
homes  spring-water  flowed  in  pipes  directly  into  the 


Life  on  a  Green    Mountain   Top 


itfi 


Grandpa  gives  the  Boys  some  Good  Advice 

house,  or  at  least  to  a  tub  in  the  yard,  though  other  in- 
stances were  not  lacking  where  families  carried  the 
water  by  hand  from  some  natural  source,  very  likely 
quite  a  walk  distant. 

The  interior  aspect  of  the  Norton  houses  I  thought 
better  than  the  exterior,  and  the  sitting  room  in  par- 
ticular usually  had  touches  of  attraction  and  of  homely 
comfort.  An  odd  feature  of  the  older  houses  was  a 
cat-hole  puncturing  the  wall  low  down  at  one  side  of 


1 82  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

the  kitchen  door.  A  shingle  suspended  on  a  single 
nail  closed  the  hole  to  the  weather,  and  swung  back  of 
itself  into  place  after  a  cat  had  pushed  it  aside  and 
crept  through.  One  house  I  visited  had  a  second  cat- 
hole  which  gave  access  to  the  sitting  room  from  the 
kitchen  ;  but  this  was  uncommon,  and  as  a  rule  the  cats 
only  had  free  run  of  the  latter  apartment. 

Here  and  there  on  the  Norton  hilltops  could  be 
found  grass-grown  mounds  and  excavations,  accom- 
panied perhaps  by  the  wreck  of  an  old  stone  chimney, 
showing  where  once  had  been  a  home ;  yet  enough 
houses  have  been  built  to  replace  those  that  have  gone. 
The  town  has  not  decreased  in  population,  as  have 
most  rural  towns  in  New  England.  It  was  settled  late 
—  barely  a  hundred  years  ago  —  and  it  has  never 
passed  the  pioneer  stage.  It  is  still  a  backwoods  town, 
and  continues,  as  in  the  past,  largely  dependent  on  its 
forest  industries.  When  the  woodlands  are  exhausted, 
as  it  seems  probable  they  will  be  soon,  grazing  and 
dairying  may  in  some  form  be  found  profitable ;  but  it 
is  not  unlikely  that  a  considerable  fraction  of  the  inhab- 
itants will  seek  some  more  favored  section.  In  that 
event  the  forest  will  take  to  itself  many  of  the  now  open 
fields  and  pastures,  effacing,  so  far  as  it  can,  the  mem- 
ory of  man  with  his  devastating  axe,  and  attempting  to 
restore  the  uplands  to  their  former  sylvan  solitude. 

Another  possibility  is  that  Norton  will  fare  as  has 
the  mountain  town  neighboring  it  to  the  south,  where 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  18} 

the  old  inhabitants  have  to  a  great  extent  sold  their 
places  to  foreigners  from  Milldale  and  gone  away. 
The  "  Polacks,"  Jews,  French,  "  Eyetalians,"  etc.,  who 
have  moved  in,  attracted  by  the  fact  that  they  "  can 
buy  a  farm  for  little  or  nothing,"  are  not  a  very  desir- 
able class.  They  "live  like  pigs,"  and  are  often  the 
worse  for  liquor ;  but  they  spend  so  little  for  their  living 
expenses  that  they  are,  comparatively  speaking,  pros- 
perous. Some  of  the  run-down  Yankees  who  remain 
are  more  disreputable  than  the  foreigners  —  drinking, 
swearing,  worthless  decadents,  strangely  shiftless  and 

O'  O        J 

irresponsible.  I  was  told  of  one  nondescript  family 
of  this  class  that  had  recently  sold  a  sleigh.  Before 
the  buyer  came  for  it  they  had  a  chance  to  sell  again 
and  did  so.  In  each  case  they  got  their  pay,  and  when 
man  number  two  discovered  the  situation,  he  demanded 
his  money  within  twenty-four  hours,  or  he  would  have 
them  arrested.  That  night  the  household  packed  up 
their  goods  and  wended  their  way  to  another  state. 
One  finds  among  the  mountain  dwellers  not  a  few 

o 

peculiar  developments  of  individuality  to  which  the 
seclusion  of  the  thinly  settled  upland  adds  its  own 
flavor.  For  instance,  there  was  Dr.  Podden.  He 
lived  in  a  little  house  he  had  built  for  himself  off  on  a 
rough  wood  road,  and  he  escaped  taxes  by  refusing  to 
pay  them  unless  the  town  opened  up  a  highway  to  his 
place.  He  was  a  forest  hermit  of  whom  the  world  saw 
little.  Gathering  gum  was  his  chief  employment,  but 


184  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

he  made  some  sort  of  a  salve  which  he  sold  among  the 
neighbors,  and  this  gave  him  the  title  of  doctor.     He 


The  Rain-water  Barrel 


was  tall  and  dark,  with  a  grizzly  beard,  and  was  reputed 
to  be  "  part  Injun." 


Life  on  a  Green    Mountain  Top  185 

Another  man  out  of  the  common  was  Blind  Crip- 
ton.  He  boarded  in  a  family  with  whom  he  had  been 
for  many  years,  but  he  was  not  a  dependant  and  made 
his  living  by  peddling.  He  could  go  about  the  home 
town  and  several  mountain  towns  adjoining,  by  him- 
self, and  he  always  knew  when  he  came  to  a  house. 
As  he  plodded  along  he  tapped  the  ground  before  him 
with  a  long  cane,  and  he  had  a  curious  habit  of  touching 
the  knob  of  the  cane  to  the  end  of  his  nose  at  frequent 
intervals,  as  if  this,  in  some  occult  fashion,  helped  him 
to  find  his  way.  His  hearing  was  remarkably  acute, 
and  it  was  never  safe  to  whisper  in  his  presence  expect- 
ing he  would  not  catch  what  was  said.  He  could  even 
tell  to  what  family  a  child  belonged  by  the  sound  of 
its  voice. 

His  wares  were  small  articles  like  thread,  needles, 
pins,  stockings,  cough  cures,  candies,  etc.  He  was  a 
man  of  serious  thought  and  liked  to  talk  about  medi- 
cine and  history  and  religion  ;  but  his  views  on  the  last 
topic  were  not  very  welcome  in  most  homes,  for  he 
was  an  aggressive  and  extreme  non-believer.  In  his 
wanderings  Blind  Cripton  of  course  lodged  and  took 
his  meals  at  the  farm-houses.  He  had  a  keen  antipathy 
to  pork  and  would  have  naught  to  do  with  anything 
that  contained  what  he  called  "squeal-grease,"  and 
though  very  partial  to  dandelion  greens,  yet  it  they 
had  been  cooked  with  pork  he  would  not  partake.  In 
fact,  he  always  carried  along  a  supply  of  crackers  in  his 


1 86  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

bag,  and  nibbled  those  if  he  was  not  suited  with  the 
food  at  the  places  where  he  stopped. 

A  more  pleasing  type  than  either  of  these  two  men 
was  Mrs.  Flanagan,  one  of  the  town's  poor.  She  was 
not  wholly  dependent  and  she  still  lived  in  her  own 
house  —  a  tiny  gray  dwelling  down  a  steep  hill  from 
the  road,  on  the  far  side  of  a  mowing  field.  As  you 
saw  it  from  the  highway  it  seemed  lost  among  the  vast 
billowing  hills  of  green  forest  that  rose  around.  You 
noticed,  too,  that  the  little  group  of  buildings  looked 
strangely  barren  —  almost  as  if  they  were  deserted. 
Fifteen  years  ago  Mrs.  Flanagan's  husband  went  out 
to  an  apple  tree  behind  the  house  and  hung  himself. 
From  that  time  on  she  and  her  daughter  Martha  car- 
ried on  the  farm.  Then  the  daughter's  health  began 
to  fail.  A  cancer  was  eating  her  life  away,  and  toward 
the  last  she  became  a  helpless  invalid.  Finally  she 
died,  and  the  mother  struggled  on  alone,  often  in  dire 
want,  until  the  town  officers,  realizing  that  in  her  feeble 
age  she  was  not  fitted  to  support  herself,  took  her  and 
her  farm  in  charge,  and  drove  away  her  few  cows. 
They  would  have  put  her  in  some  family  to  board, 
but  to  such  an  arrangement  she  would  not  agree  ;  and 
in  a  desultory  way  the  officials  care  for  her  in  the  little 
gray  house.  They  furnish  her  cord-wood  and  she  saws 
it.  When  the  supply  fails,  as  has  happened  once  or 
twice,  she  goes  to  the  woods  and  hacks  off  dead 
branches  and  drags  them  home.  The  selectmen  were 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  187 

intending  to  shingle  the  dwelling  presently,  and  the 
shingles  were  ready  in  the  shed.  Meanwhile  the  roof 
leaked  badly,  and  in  heavy  rains  the  water  came  down 
as  through  a  sieve.  The  lone  inmate  had  even  been 
compelled  to  get  up  on  stormy  nights  and  move  her 
bed  to  escape  the  dripping  from  above. 

She  was  a  timid  woman,  and  she  suffered  a  good  deal 
from  fright  during  the  long  nights  after  Martha  died. 
This  fear  has  gradually  subsided,  but  she  always  locks 
up  early  and  rarely  burns  a  light.  Her  only  constant 
companions  now  are  her  three  cats,  and  the  favorite  of 
these  is  a  yellow  cat  that  she  thinks  resembles  a  wood- 
chuck,  and  so  is  not  a  little  worried  lest  some  one  should 
make  a  mistake  and  shoot  it. 

The  neighbors  frequently  visit  her,  for  she  is  a 
gentle  old  soul  and  they  are  fond  of  her.  They  bring 
her  good  things  to  eat  that  her  own  cooking  and  lean 
larder  will  not  be  likely  to  supply,  and  they  bring  her 
flowers.  She  does  not  much  care  for  the  latter.  Her 
mind  is  of  too  practical  a  turn  to  take  much  pleasure 
in  what  is  merely  pretty  and  in  no  way  useful.  It  is  a 
far  greater  satisfaction  to  get  reading  matter.  She  is 
especially  interested  in  the  local  newspapers,  and  likes 
to  read  all  there  is  in  them  except  the  murders. 

Before  I  left  Norton,  I,  too,  visited  Mrs.  Flanagan 
and  sat  for  a  half-hour  in  her  tiny  kitchen.  She  apolo- 
gized because  it  was  "  so  dirty,"  though  in  reality  it 
was  very  neat  and  clean.  Yet  it  was  not  as  it  had  been 


1 88  New  England   and   its  Neighbors 

when  Martha  was  alive.  Then  they  kept  everything 
scoured  "  as  white  as  snow."  It  was  a  curious  apartment 
—  no  plastering,  no  wall-paper,  but  sides  and  ceiling  all 
roughly  sheathed  with  unpainted  smoke-darkened 
boards.  There  was  a  small  stove,  a  table,  a  few  chairs, 
and  on  a  shelf  a  great  wooden  clock.  Mrs.  Flanagan 
herself  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  tucked  back  in  a  corner. 
She  was  frail  and  white-haired,  and  wore  heavy-bowed, 
old-fashioned  spectacles. 

From  where  she  sat  the  road  up  the  hill  was 
in  plain  sight.  She  never  walked  that  far,  but  she 
rarely  failed  to  see  every  one  who  passed  or  who 
turned  into  the  lot  on  their  way  to  make  her  a  call. 
The  approach  to  the  house  was  very  "  sideling,"  and 
such  of  her  visitors  as  come  in  a  team  usually  tie  the 
horse  to  the  bushes  on  the  borders  of  the  road.  She 
lives  alone  and  probably  she  will  die  alone,  and  when 
the  neighbors  intending  to  call  get  within  sight  of 
the  house  they  always  watch  to  see  if  the  smoke  is 
rising  from  the  chimney.  Some  of  them  would  turn 
back  if  it  were  not,  fearful  that  the  little  gray  dwelling 
in  the  hollow  had  at  last  lost  its  tenant. 

One  phase  of  life  on  this  New  England  mountain 
top  was  wholly  new  to  me  and  unexpected  —  illicit 
distilling  was  carried  on  in  Norton.  Two  or  three 
families  in  different  sections  of  the  town  were  men- 
tioned as  engaged  in  the  business,  and  it  was  said  they 
smuggled  off  their  liquor  at  night  concealed  in  loads 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  189 

of  wood  or  hay  to  a  town  in  the  lowlands.  I  asked 
one  of  the  town  residents  what  he  knew  personally  of 
this  distilling,  and  he  said :  "  Well,  I've  seen  little 
streaks  of  smoke  trickling  up  through  the  trees  from 
Scates's  woods,  and  I've  been  down  through  there  and 
found  coals  and  ashes  and  lead  pipe.  Old  man  Scates 
nearly  died  last  year  from  drinking  cider  brandy  he'd 
distilled  through  lead  piping." 

My  informant  was  of  the  opinion  that  brandy  was  to 
some  extent  illicitly  manufactured  in  all  cider  regions. 
If  the  country  was  not  wooded  and  lonely  enough  to 
afford  good  hiding  for  the  plant,  the  liquor  was  pro- 
duced in  a  still  set  up  in  the  house  cellar  ;  and  the  dis- 
tillers responded  to  awkward  inquiries  by  saying  that 
they  boiled  the  swill  down  there. 

I  was  in  Norton  over  Sunday.  It  was  a  doubtful, 
threatening  day,  a  fit  successor  to  a  long  spell  of 
showery,  befogged  days  preceding.  Shortly  after  break- 
fast I  heard  some  one  at  the  kitchen  door  talking 
with  my  landlady.  The  conversation  had  begun  with 
her  remarking,  "Well,  Jim,  what's  the  news  this 
morning?"  to  which  he  had  responded,  "Nothing 
much  worth  lyin'  about." 

I  looked  out  the  window  and  saw  a  lank,  long-haired 
youth  standing  at  the  threshold.  He  was  evidently 
afflicted  with  a  bad  cold  and  my  landlady  made 
some  sympathetic  reference  to  the  fact.  '  ^  es,  Mrs. 
Smithers,"  he  said  as  he  blew  his  nose  violently,  "  and 


190  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

it  takes  all  my  time  to  keep  my  ventilator  open.  I 
wish  you  would  pray  the  Lord  for  good  weather." 

"Hmph!"  responded  Mrs.  Smithers,  "this 
weather  ain't  any  o'  the  Lord's  doin's.  I'm  goin'  to 
get  a  ladder  and  go  up  in  the  sky  and  whack  the 
devil  in  the  head  —  then  we'll  have  a  change,  I 
guess." 

"  Well,  I  must  be  trottin'  along,"  said  the  man. 
"  Most  folks  lay  off  on  Sunday,  but  you,  know  I'm 
away  from  home  workin'  all  the  week  jus'  now,  and 
Sunday's  the  only  chance  I  get  to  tend  to  my  garden." 

"And  do  you  expect  things'll  grow  that  you  start 
on  Sunday  ?  " 

"  Why,  cert !  Don't  make  no  drff'rence  about  the 
day.  You'd  ought  to  see  my  ineyuns  that  I  planted 
Sunday,  two  weeks  ago  —  finest-lookin'  ineyuns  I  ever 
set  eyes  on." 

"  But  what  does  your  wife  say  ? " 

"  She  don't  say  nothin',  'cause  she  knows  it's  neces- 
sary so't  she  and  the  children'll  have  somethin'  to  live 
on.  I  tell  you  gettin'  married  knocked  a  lot  o'  money 
out'n  me.  Before  I  was  married  I  didn't  have  to  work 
but  half  the  time,  and  had  money  in  my  pocket,  and 
could  dress  right  up  to  the  handle.  Now  I  have  to 
work  all  the  time,  and  can't  keep  out  o'  debt  —  and 
jus'  look  at  my  clo'es  !  " 

With  that  he  shambled  away,  blowing  his  nose  as  he 
went. 


TAKING  CARE  OF  THE  BABY 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  191 

Later  in   the   morning  the  warm   sunshine    glinted 

<->  D 

through  the  clouds,  and  I  decided  to  attend  church. 
The  way  thither  was  along  a  shadowed  valley  road 
delightful  with  damp,  woodsy  odors  and  the  mellow 
rustle  of  a  near-by  stream  hurrying  over  the  stones  that 
strewed  its  channel.  I  found  Deacon  Tanner  standing 
on  the  meeting-house  steps  —  a  labor-worn,  elderly 
man,  who  greeted  me  with  hearty  cordiality.  He  was 
the  chief  pillar  of  the  church,  and  contributed  one 
dollar  weekly  to  its  support. 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  Eleven  o'clock — just  ser- 
vice time.  But  the  Deacon  said,  "  There's  no  one 
here  yet,"  and  we  chatted  at  the  door  for  a  half-hour 
before  he  suggested  that  we  go  inside.  He  told  me 
the  story  of  the  church.  It  had  been  erected  largely 
through  his  efforts.  Thirty  years  ago  the  town  was 
churchless.  "  I  was  always  a  Baptist,"  he  said,  "  and 
there  was  one  other  Baptist  family  in  the  town  at  that 
time,  and  several  Universalists,  and,  what  was  worse,  a 
number  of  Spiritualists.  When  we  began  to  think  of 
having  a  church,  we  held  Sabbath  services  in  the  town 
hall.  That  stirred  up  the  Spiritualists,  and  sometimes 
they'd  get  into  the  town  hall  ahead  of  us,  and  they'd 
have  a  meeting  and  we  wouldn't." 

But  it  seemed  that  the  Baptists  had  the  most  staying 
power,  and  in  the  end,  with  outside  assistance,  they 
put  up  a  fifteen  hundred  dollar  building,  and  started 
off  with  a  goodly  attendance  and  a  very  fair  list  ot 


192  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

members.  "  I  suppose  that  you  would  be  satisfied 
with  just  sprinkling,"  remarked  the  Deacon  in  conclu- 
sion, eying  me  in  the  hope  he  was  mistaken,  "  but 
that  wouldn't  suit  me  at  all." 

The  baptisms  take  place  in  a  pool  below  a  bridge 
a  half-mile  distant.  Whenever  any  baptizing  is  to  be 
done  the  banks  in  the  vicinity  are  lined  by  a  crowd 
largely  made  up  of  those  outside  the  fold,  to  whom 
the  ceremony  presents  a  strange  and  entertaining  spec- 
tacle. Some  of  the  ungodly  have  been  known  to 
improve  the  occasion  by  going  up  stream  and  "  kick- 
ing up  a  rile,"  but  there  is  no  serious  disturbance. 

The  congregation  at  Norton  church  on  the  day  I 
attended  numbered  eleven.  We  had  all  walked,  and, 
judging  from  the  weedy  earth  in  the  line  of  horse- 
sheds,  few  ever  came  in  teams.  A  preacher  was  lacking. 
The  last  minister,  by  holding  a  service  here  in  the 
morning  and  at  a  village  three  or  four  miles  away  in 
the  afternoon,  had  earned  seven  dollars  a  week.  All 
went  well  until  he  became  too  insistent  in  his  efforts  to 
heal  the  various  antipathies  that  existed  among  the 
members  of  his  flock.  He  took  sides,  and  tried  to 
bring  about  harmony  by  force.  He  even  proclaimed 
that  he  would  expel  a  certain  member  from  the  church 
unless  he  did  as  he  ought;  and  a  large  congregation 
gathered  for  several  Sundays  to  witness  the  threatened 
expulsion.  But,  instead,  the  minister  left. 

It  was  customary  now  for  those  who  came  to  join  in 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  193 

a  Christian  Endeavor  service  and  then  in  a  Sunday- 
school.  They  formed  a  kind  of  family  party  as  I  saw 
them.  There  was  the  Deacon,  his  wife,  a  son,  two 
daughters,  one  of  them  married  and  accompanied  by 


The  Lonely  Little  Church 

her  husband  and  little  girl,  and  a  young  man  and  his 
sister,  also  related  to  the  Deacon,  but  not  so  closely  as 
the  others.  The  teacher  of  the  "White"  school- 
house  and  I  represented  the  outsiders. 

The  church  interior  was  very  simple — a  low  plat- 
form and  desk  pulpit,  a  cabinet  organ,  two  rows  of 
settees,  a  big  stove,  and,  on  the  rear  wall,  a  clock  that 
punctuated  the  quiet  with  ponderous  ticking.  One  or 
two  patches  of  ceiling  had  fallen,  and  the  plastering 
was  everywhere  cracked  into  an  irregular  mosaic  and 


194  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

looked  as  if  a  slight  shock  would  bring  it  all  rattling 
down.  The  Endeavor  meeting  was  of  the  usual  pattern, 
with  singing  for  its  most  prominent  feature ;  but  there 
was  no  lack  of  remarks,  Bible  readings,  and  prayers,  and 
every  one  took  a  part  in  these,  with  the  exception  of  the 
outsiders  and  the  Deacon's  little  granddaughter.  The 
organ  was  played  by  the  school-teacher,  and  all  sang 
with  fervor,  though  each  quite  independent  of  the  rest 
as  to  time  and  harmony. 

With  the  beginning  of  Sunday-school  the  Deacon 
went  to  the  platform,  and  put  some  questions  in 
connection  with  a  gaudy-colored  picture  on  a  wall  roll. 
"  What  is  this,  thar  ?  "  he  would  inquire,  and  point  with 
his  eye-glasses,  reaching  up  on  tiptoe,  for  the  picture 
hung  high.  The  wall  roll  illustrated  each  lesson  for 
an  interval  of  three  months.  They  found  it  helpful, 
and  voted  to  buy  another  for  the  next  quarter,  at  an 
expense  of  seventy-five  cents,  after  being  assured  by 
the  treasurer  that  while  not  enough  money  was  then 
in  the  treasury,  there  probably  would  be  by  the  time 
they  had  to  pay  for  the  roll.  For  detailed  con- 
sideration of  the  day's  lesson  we  divided  into  two 
classes.  The  Deacon's  son  had  charge  of  one,  and 
the  unmarried  daughter  of  the  other.  The  latter's 
charge  consisted  of  the  granddaughter,  who  preserved 
a  discreet  silence  on  most  of  the  questions  propounded, 
so  that  the  teacher  had  to  answer  them  herself.  In  the 
larger  class  we  went  faithfully  through  the  mechanics  of 


Life  on  a  Green   Mountain  Top  195 

the  lesson  as  printed  in  the  lesson  quarterlies,  and  then, 
duty  done,  the  Sunday-school  united  in  a  closing  song. 
Now  that  the  religious  exercises  of  the  day  were 
concluded,  the  congregation  left  the  meeting-house, 
and  loitered  homeward,  conversing  on  wholly  secular 
subjects,  as  if  the  church  services  had  not  been. 

I  had  found  it  all  very  interesting,  and  could  not  but 
respect  those  who  had  built  the  little  church,  and  were 
keeping  it  alive.  With  the  Deacon,  to  be  sure,  his 
particular  form  of  religion  was  his  hobby  and  chief 
pleasure,  but  at  the  same  time  there  was  something 
fine  in  his  persistent  labor  and  sacrifice  for  it ;  and, 
lacking  his  support,  it  seems  quite  probable  that  this 
Green  Mountain  top  would  again  become  churchless. 


<• 


IX 


DOWN    IN    MAINE 

I  HAVE  always  thought 
that  fiction  made  the 
people  of  the  New 
England  country  much  more 
.picturesque  and  entertaining 
than  they  really  were,  for  it 
has  seemed  to  me  that  in 
New  England,  as  elsewhere, 
the  commonplace  abounded 
and  distinct  originality  only 
cropped  out  at  infrequent  in- 
tervals. Since  going  "down" 
in  Maine  I  have  revised  this 
opinion  somewhat,  and  am 
willing  to  concede  more  than 
I  would  have  before  to  our 
dialect  writers  —  at  least  to 
such  as  are  not  carried  away 
with  a  craze  for  queer  types 
and  mere  grotesqueness. 
The  rural  population  along  the  Maine  coast  is  com- 
posed almost  wholly  of  Yankees  of  the  purest  strain, 

196 


A  Mount  Desert  Well 


Down  in   Maine  197 

than  whom  there  does  not  exist  a  more  piquant  com- 
bination of  shrewdness  and  originality,  intermixed  with 
not  a  little  downright  oddity  and  crankiness.  They 
are  born  jokers,  and  their  conversation  is  enlivened 
with  many  curious  twists  and  turns  and  out-of-the-way 
notions.  The  talk  of  the  men  and  boys,  it  must  be 
allowed,  is  apt  to  be  well  seasoned  with  brimstone,  yet 
this  insinuates  itself  in  such  a  gentle,  casual  way  that  it 
is  robbed  of  half  its  significance.  On  ordinary  occasions 
the  inclination  is  to  avoid  absolute  swearing,  and  make 
the  word  "  darn  "  in  its  various  conjugations  serve  to 
give  the  desired  emphasis.  "  Darn  "  was  one  of  the 
hardest-worked  words  I  heard,  though  a  close  second 
was  found  in  the  mention  of  his  Satanic  Majesty. 

Another  characteristic  of  the  Maine  folk  was  their 
great  fondness  for  whittling.  Some  of  them  would 
pare  away  with  their  jack-knives  at  sticks  big  enough 
for  firewood,  and  at  one  sitting  whittle  them  all  to 
pieces.  Yet  this  jack-knife  labor  was  strangely  aimless. 
These  down-east  Yankees  only  whittled  out  their 
thoughts  —  rarely  anything  else  —  not  even  a  tooth- 
pick, though  I  did  see  one  man,  on  the  porch  of  a 
store,  fashion  a  prod  about  a  foot  long  with  which  he 
proceeded  to  clean  out  his  ears. 

Still  another  characteristic  of  the  inhabitants  was  their 
serene  lack  of  haste.  "  Forced-to-go  never  gits  far," 
was  a  sentiment  that  seemed  to  have  found  universal 
acceptance  in  the  rustic  fishing  village  where  I  sojourned. 


198  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

The  people  were  all  loiterers  on  the  slightest  excuse. 
You  saw  them  visiting  in  the  fields,  they  sat  on  fences 
together  and  in  the  grass  by  the  roadside,  and  on  the 
counters  and  among  the  boxes  of  the  little  stores,  and 
on  the  piazzas  in  front  of  the  taverns  and  post-offices. 
Teams  that  met  on  the  road  often  drew  up  to  give  the 
drivers  opportunity  to  talk,  or  a  man  driving  would 
meet  a  man  walking,  and  both  would  stop,  while  the 
latter  adjusted  one  foot  comfortably  on  a  wheel-hub 
and  entered  into  conversation. 

Yet  the  people  were  not  incompetent  or  thriftless. 
In  their  plodding  way  they  nearly  all  made  a  decent 
living,  and  some  accumulated  modest  wealth.  The 
homes  were,  almost  without  exception,  plain  two-story 
buildings  of  wood  with  clapboarded  sides.  The  low, 
old-fashioned,  weatherworn  houses,  shingled  all  over, 
walls  as  well  as  roofs,  were  getting  rare.  Barns  were 
small,  for  it  is  not  a  good  farming  region,  and  the 
houses  presented  a  somewhat  forlorn  and  barren  aspect 
from  lack  of  the  great  elms,  maples,  and  spreading 
apple  trees  which  in  other  parts  of  New  England  are 
an  almost  certain  accompaniment  of  country  homes. 
These  trees  do  not  flourish  in  northeastern  Maine. 
Instead,  spruce  and  fir  are  the  typical  trees  of  the 
landscape.  Their  dark  forests  overspread  a  very 
large  part  of  the  country  and  give  to  it  a  look  of  rude 
northern  sterility,  bespeaking  short  summers  and  long, 
cold  winters. 


Down  in   Maine 


199 


A  Lobster-pot 

To  me  the  region  was  most  attractive  close  along  the 
shore.  1  liked  to  linger  on  the  odorous  wharves,  with 
their  barnacled  piles  and  their  litter  of  boards  and  barrels, 
ropes  and  lobster-pots.  I  liked  still  better  to  follow 
the  water-line  out  to  the  points  where  were  seaward- 
jutting  ledges  against  which  the  waves  were  ceaselessly 
crashing  and  foaming.  Behind  the  points  the  sea 
reached  inland  in  many  a  broad  bay  and  quiet  cove, 
and  with  every  receding  tide  these  invading  waters 
shrunk  and  left  exposed  wide  acres  of  mud-flats  where 
barefoot  boys  grubbed  with  short-handled  forks  for 
clams.  Then  there  were  the  frequent  ruins  of  old 
vessels,  some  of  them  with  hulls  nearly  complete,  but 
dismantled  of  everything  that  could  be  ripped  off  and 


2OO  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

taken  away  ;  others  with  little  left  save  their  gaunt, 
black  ribs  sticking  up  out  of  the  sand  like  the  bones  of 
ancient  leviathans  of  the  deep. 

"  'Twa'n't  storms  that  spiled  'em  —  leastways  that 
wa'n't  the  trouble  with  most  on  'em,"  explained  a  man 
I  had  questioned  about  them.  "  They  just  wa'n't  sea- 
worthy no  longer,  you  know." 

The  man  was  fastening  a  new  sail  to  the  bowsprit  of 
his  clumsy  fishing  sloop  that  lay  on  its  side  on  the 
beach.  "  But  you  see  that  vessel,  right  over  thar  in 
the  middle  o'  the  cove  —  that's  a  wrack.  It  drove  in 
here  in  a  storm  with  nobody  on  board.  That  was  a 
East  Injiaman  wunst.  There  ain't  many  vessels  of 
any  size  owned  along  the  coast  here  now.  This  boat's 
the  sort  we  have  mostly  hereabouts  these  days.  I  go 
lobsterin'  in  it.  I  got  one  hundred  and  twenty  pots 
out,  and  I'll  be  startin'  to  visit  'em  about  three  o'clock 
to-morrer  mornin'.  It'll  be  noon  by  the  time  I  c'n 
make  the  rounds  and  git  back." 

I  left  the  man  tinkering  his  boat  and  went  up  from 
the  shore  into  a  pasture  field.  There  I  found  two  chil- 
dren, a  boy  and  a  girl,  picking  wild  strawberries.  The 
berries  were  small,  but  they  were  sweet  and  had  a  deli- 
cate herby  flavor  never  attained  by  cultivated  varieties. 
The  boy  said  they  intended  to  sell  what  they  picked 
to  the  hotels.  The  hotels  were  good  customers  all 
through  the  season,  and  the  children  tramped  over 
many  miles  of  field  and  swamp  and  woods  in  a  search 


Down  in   Maine  201 

for  the  succession  of  berries  —  from  the  strawberries, 
which  ripened  in  June,  and  the  raspberries,  blackberries, 
and  blueberries  and  huckleberries  which  followed  later, 
to  cranberries  in  the  early  autumn. 

Now  a  man  called  to  the  little  girl  from  a  neighboring 
patch  of  cultivated  land  where  he  was  hoeing.     "  Susy," 


A  Home  on  the  Shore 

he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  go  home  'n'  get  my  terbacker. 
It's  right  in  my  other  pants't  I  hung  up  by  the  sutler 
door." 

"  Do  you  want  your  knife,  too  ?  "  the  girl  called 
back. 

"  No,  jest  the  terbacker.  I  can't  work  good  'ithout 
it." 

"Your  beans  are  looking  well,"  said  I,  from  over 
the  fence. 


STATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 

UOS  ANGELlES,  CAIl. 


2O2  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

"  Yes ;  but  the  darned  weeds  grow  so  I  have  to  hoe 
'em,"  he  complained,  with  the  air  of  thinking  the 
weeds  increased  in  number  and  size  out  of  pure  con- 
trariness. 

"  You're  a  stranger  round  here,  ain't  ye  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued, inquiringly. 

I  acknowledged  that  I  was. 

"  Well,  d'ye  ever  see  that  stun  over't  Green 
Harbor?" 

No  ;   I  had  not. 

"Well,  ye  ought  to.  It's  a  grave-stun  —  marble 
—  'n'  't  was  jes'  like  any  other  stun  when  'twas 
planted.  Man  named  Ruckle  is  buried  thar.  I  c'n 
remember  him  when  I  was  a  boy.  He  was  a  great 
hand  for  religion  —  use  to  be  alus  tellin'  how  now 
he  bore  the  cross,  but  sometime  he'd  wear  the 
crown. 

"  An'  people  use  to  say  to  him  he  mustn't  be  too 
sure.  Might  be  he'd  go  to  hell  after  all.  But,  no,  he 
knowed  he  was  goin'  to  heaven,  'n'  if  there  was  any 
way  o'  informin'  his  friends  he  was  wearin'  the  crown 
after  he  died  he'd  let  'em  know.  Well,  he  died  'n' 
they  buried  him  'n'  put  up  the  stun,  'n'  'bout  three 
months  after'ards  people  begun  to  notice  there  was 
somethin'  comin'  out  on't.  It  was  special  plain  after 
rains,  'n'  then  they  made  out  'twas  a  figger  of  a  man 
with  his  hands  folded,  prayin' ;  and  there  was  a  crown 
on  his  head.  It'd  pay  you  to  go  over  thar  'n'  see  that 


SUMMER  CALM 


Down  in   Maine  203 

thar  stun.  You  arsk  for  Job  Ruckle.  He's  a  relative 
V  he'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

My  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  a  few  days  later  I 
went  over  to  Green  Harbor  and  looked  up  Mr.  Job 
Ruckle.  He  was  standing  in  his  kitchen  doorway. 

"  It  isn't  going  to  storm,  is  it  ?  "    I  remarked. 

Mr.  Ruckle  cast  his  eyes  skyward.  "Well,  I  do' 
know,"  was  his  response,  "  we  been  havin'  awful  funny 
weather  here  lately.  Now  to-day  you  can't  tell  what 
it's  goin'  to  do.  There's  spells  when  the  sun  almost 
shines,  and  then  it  comes  on  dark  and  foggy  'n'  you 
hear  the  big  bell  dingin'  down  at  the  lighthouse." 

His  friendly  communicativeness,  like  that  of  most 
of  the  natives,  was  delightful.  I  mentioned  the  mysti- 
cal gravestone  and  he  said  :  "  I'll  take  ye  right  to  the 
buryin'-groun'  'n'  show  it  to  ye.  But  I  got  to  draw 
a  bucket  o'  water  fust.  My  woman'd  give  me  Hail 
Columby  if  I  didn't." 

He  picked  up  a  heavy  wooden  pail,  and  I  followed 
him  across  the  yard  to  an  antiquated  well-sweep.  He 
lowered  and  filled  the  pail. 

"  The  well  ain't  so  very  deep,  but  you  won't  find  no 
better  water  nowhar,"  he  declared. 

I  begged  to  try  it  and  commended  its  sweetness  and 
coolness. 

"  Yes,  the  rusticators  all  take  to  that  water,"  was  his 
pleased  comment. 

By  rusticators  he  meant  the  summer  boarders  of  the 


204  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

region.  That  was  the  common  term  for  them  on  the 
Maine  coast.  At  first  my  unfamiliar  ears  failed  to 
catch  the  signification  of  the  word,  and  I  had  the  fancy 
that  a  rusticator  was  some  curious  sea  creature  akin  to 
an  alligator. 

"  These  'ere  rusticators,"  the  man  went  on,  "  stop 
here  time  'n'  agin  to  git  a  drink  from  my  well. 
That's  ginoowine  water,  that  is  !  " 

Presently  he  was  leading  the  way  down  one  of  the 
narrow,  woodsy  lanes  that  abound  in  the  district  to 
the  rustic  burial-place  of  the  community. 

"Thar's  the  stun,"  said  Mr.  Ruckle,  "  'n'  thar's 
the  figger  coverin'  the  hull  back  on't.  Here's  the 
head  'n'  the  two  eyes,  'n'  out  this  side  is  the  hands 
clasped,  'n'  thar's  the  crown.  Looks  like  an  old 
Injun,  I  tell  'em.  There's  lots  o'  people  come  here 
to  see  it  —  some  on  'em  way  from  Philadelphia,  'n' 
I've  seen  this  lane  all  full  o'  rusticators'  buckboards. 
Some  think  the  figger's  a  rael  sign  from  heaven;  but 
my  idee  is  that  the  marble's  poor,  or  thar  wouldn't 
no  stain  a  come  out  that  way.  I  tell  the  relations  't 
I'd  take  the  stun  down  'n'  put  up  a  good  one,  but 
the  rest  on  'em  won't  have  it  teched." 

The  story  of  the  stone  was  interesting  and  the 
cloudy  markings  on  its  back  curious,  and  I  could 
make  out  the  vague  figure  crowned  and  prayerful, 
yet  it  certainly  was  too  grewsomely  like  an  "  old 
Injun  "  to  be  suggestive  of  a  heavenly  origin. 


Down  in   Maine 


205 


One  thing  that  impressed  me  during  my  stay  in 
Maine  was  the  astonishing  number  of  little  churches 
among  the  scattered  homes.  I  could  not  see  the  need 
for  half  of  them.  The  only  excuse  offered  for  their 
superabundance  was  the  uncompromising  denomina- 
tionalism  of  the  inhabitants.  One  man  told  me  of 
a  little  hamlet  where  two  churches  had  recently  been 
begun  —  a  Methodist  and  a  Baptist. 

"  They're  at  Clamville,  way  up  't  the  end  o'  Hog 
Bay,"  he  explained,  with  the  customary  attention  to 
details.  " 'Tain't  nothin'  of  a  place  —  only  'bout 
six  houses  there  and  the  people  are  poorer'n  Job's 
turkey  ;  but  somethin'  stirred  'em  up  lately,  and 
they  set  to  work  to  put  up  them  two  churches. 
Well,  their  money's  given  out  now,  and  they've 
stopped  on  both  of  'em.  I  wouldn't  wonder  a  mite 
if  they  stood  there  jes's  they  air,  half  finished,  till 
they  rotted  and  tumbled  to  pieces." 

It  was  a  man  named  Smith  who  related  this.  He 
was  driving  and  had  overtaken  me  walking  on  the 
road,  and  as  he  was  alone  he  had  offered  me  the 
vacant  seat  in  his  buggy.  That  is  a  way  the  Maine 
folks  have,  for  a  team  not  already  filled  never  passes 
a  pedestrian,  whether  acquaintance  or  stranger,  without 
this  friendly  tender  of  assistance. 

"You  look  like  a  feller  I  knew  once  that  was  to 
our  Smith  reunion,  over  in  Washington  County  a  few 
years  ago,"  the  man  confided.  "  But  he  was  rather 


206  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

taller' n  you,  come  to  think.  I  was  livin'  over  there 
then  and  I  got  up'  the  reunion  myself.  We  had  a 
great  time.  There  was  Smiths  from  all  around  — 
Massachusetts  and  everywhere  —  forty  or  fifty  of 
'em ;  and  there  was  a  friend  of  mine  there,  an  artist 
from  Aroostook  County  with  his  camera.  He  took 
two  pictures  of  the  crowd,  and  he  had  bad  luck  with 
both  of  'em.  I  looked  through  his  machine  and  it 
was  the  prettiest  sight  ever  I  see  —  all  of  us  settin' 
there  on  the  grass  with  the  woods  behind.  By 
George,  I  wouldn't  'a'  had  them  pictures  fail  for 
twenty-five  dollars  ! 

"  You're  stoppin'  over  here  at  Sou'  East  Cove,  I 
s'pose.  You  at  one  o'  the  hotels  ?  " 

"Yes,  at  Bundy's." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  place  —  best  there  is  there. 
I'll  set  you  right  down  at  the  door.  Bundy's  wife's 
a  good  cook,  and  they  ain't  too  highfalutin  on  prices. 
Only  trouble  is  Bundy  gets  full." 

"  What,  in  Maine  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  no  trouble  about  that.  You  c'n  always 
get  your  liquor  in  packages  from  the  cities,  and  there's 
always  drinkin'  resorts  in  every  town  that  has  drinkers 
enough  to  support  'em.  In  Bar  Harbor  and  such 
places  they  run  the  saloons  perfectly  open,  but  mostly 
they  are  a  little  private  about  'em.  You  have  to  go 
downstairs  and  along  a  passage  or  something  of  that 
sort.  It's  understood  that  about  once  a  year  the 


<      r*"'  ~~~  "  .      . 

THE  POST-OFFICE  PIAZZA 


Down  in    Maine  207 

drinkin'  places'll  be  raided,  and  every  rumseller  pays 
a  fine  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  System 
amounts  to  low  license  to  my  thinkin',  and  I  don't 
see  but  there's  full  as  many  drunkards  in  Maine  as 
you'll  find  anywhere  else  among  the  same  sort  of 
people. 

"  I'll  tell  you  of  a  case.  I  live  back  here  a  mile 
or  so  beyond  where  I  picked  you  up,  and  down  a 
side  road  near  the  shore  there's  a  man  and  wife  lives, 
and  the  man  gets  tight  about  once  in  so  often.  He's 
uglier'n  sin  when  he's  spreein'  —  beats  his  wife  'n'  all 
that  sort  o'  thing.  Well,  up  she  come  the  other 
night  through  the  woods  carryin'  a  little  hairy  dog 
in  her  arms.  Her  man  had  been  and  got  crazy 
drunk  and  took  to  throwin'  things  at  her,  and  her 
face  was  cut  and  bleeding.  She  was  highstericky 
bad,  and  talkin'  wild  like,  and  huggin'  that  little  dog 
o'  hern  and  tellin'  it  to  kiss  her  —  only  comfort  she 
had  in  the  world,  she  said.  I  was  for  gettin'  the 
man  arrested,  but  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 

"  Hohum,  wal,  wal,  it  ain't  easy  to  know  what  to 
do  about  this  drinkin'  business,  and  our  Maine  system 
don't  work  to  perfection  no  more'n  any  other.  Guess 
it's  goin'  to  rain." 

It  did  rain  that  evening  —  came  down  .in  floods 
with  an  accompaniment  of  lightning  and  thunder. 
After  supper  I  sat  on  the  piazza  with  the  rest  of  the 
hotel  family.  Among  the  others  gathered  there  was 


2o8  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

a  young  woman  from  one  of  the  neighbor's,  and  a  travel- 
ling agent  who  said  he  had  made  fifteen  hundred  dol- 
lars in  nine  weeks,  and  a  piano-tuner  from  a  seaport 
a  score  of  miles  distant,  who  said  he  had  made  thirty- 
four  dollars  in  the  last  three  days.  "  But  I  ain't  col- 
lected a  red  cent  of  it,"  he  added,  "  and  how  in  the 
old  Harry  'm  I  goin'  to  pay  my  hotel  bill  with  things 
goin'  on  that  way  I'd  like  to  know  !  " 

Slap  !     The  piano-tuner  despatched  a  mosquito. 

"  Dick,"  said  he,  addressing  the  landlord,  "  where'd 
all  these  mosquitoes  come  from  down  around  here  ?  " 

"  Well,"  responded  the  landlord,  soberly,  "  we 
bought  quite  a  few  last  year.  Had  'em  barrelled  up 
and  sent  on  from  Boston." 

"  Dick,  d'  you  know,"  said  the  travelling  agent,  "  I 
like  to  'a'  got  killed  when  I  come  off  the  steamer 
on  to  your  wharf  this  trip  ?  " 

"  No  ;  how's  that  ?  " 

"My  gosh,  I  had  the  greatest  highst  't  I  ever  had 
in  my  life  !  Stepped  on  a  banana  peel  or  some- 
thing, and  my  feet  went  out  on  the  horizontal  so 
almighty  quick  I  forgot  to  flop.  I  couldn't  'a'  sat 
down  any  harder  if  I'd  'a'  weighed  five  ton  !  " 

Then  the  others  related  various  "  highsts  "  they 
had  experienced,  after  which  the  piano-tuner  changed 
the  subject  by  remarking :  "  Too  bad  you  didn't  git 
your  hay  in,  Dick.  I'd  'a'  helped  you  if  you'd  spoken 
to  me  about  it." 


Down  in   Maine 


209 


The  hay  alluded  to  was  a  bedraggled  little  heap  in 
front  of  the  hotel  steps  that  had  been  mowed  off  a 
a  patch  about  two  yards  square. 

"  Yes,  that  grass  is  wetter'n  blazes,  now.  I  cut  it 
with  my  scythe  this  mornin',  and  I  been  calculatin' 
to  put  it  on  my  wheelbarrer  'n'  run  it  into  the  barn, 
but  I  didn't  git  round  to  it.  This's  quite  a  shower 
and  it's  rainin'  hot  water  —  that's  what  it's  doin' ! 
But  it'll  be  all  right  to-morrer.  These  evenin' 
thunder-storms  never  last  overnight.  You  take  it 
when  they  come  in  the  mornin',  though,  and  you'll 
have  it  kind  o'  drizzly  all  day." 

"  Dick,"  said  the  tuner,  "  what's  the  matter  you 
don't  git  the  rusticators  here  the  way  they  do  at  Cod- 
port  ?  This  is  a  prettier  place  twice  over." 

"  The  trouble,"  replied  Dick,  "  is  with  the  Green 
Harbor  end  o'  the  town.  We  got  all  the  natural  attrac- 
tions this  end,  and  there  ain't  no  chance  o'  the  rustica- 
tors quarterin'  over  there't  Green  Harbor,  and  the  Green 
Harborers  know  it.  So  the  whole  caboodle  of  'em 
turns  out  town  meetin'  days  and  votes  down  every 
blame  projec'  we  git  up  for  improvin'  o'  the  place. 
Only  thing  we  ever  got  through  was  these  'ere  slatted- 
board  walks  laid  along  the  sides  o'  the  roads,  but 
they're  gittin'  rotted  out  in  a  good  many  spots  now. 
What  we  want  is  asphalt." 

"  But  the  rusticators  like  scenery,"  commented  the 
piano-tuner.  "  Perhaps  your  scenery'd  draw  'em  it 


2io  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

you  only  fixed  it  up  a  little.  I've  heard  tell  that  they 
whitewash  their  mountains  in  some  places  so  't  they 
look  snow-capped.  Why  don't  you  whitewash  your 
mountains  up  back  here  ?  You'd  have  all  the  people 
in  Boston  comin'  up  to  look  at  'em." 


L 


An  Old  Schoolroom 


Mr.  Bundy  ignored  the  suggestion  of  whitewash. 
His  mind  still  dwelt  on  the  wrongs  of  his  end  of  the 
town.  "  We  can't  even  git  a  new  schoolhouse,"  he 
declared.  "  Same  old  shebang  here  we  had  when  I 
was  a  boy,  and  same  old  box  desks.  They're  most 
whittled  to  pieces  now,  and  the  roof  leaks  like  furia- 
tion.  You'd  find  the  floor  all  in  a  sozzle  if  you  was 
to  go  in  there  to-night." 


Down  in   Maine  211 

"That's  your  district  school,  ain't  it?"  questioned 
the  travelling  agent.  "  But  you  got  a  good  high 
school?" 

"Yes,  the  buildin"s  good  enough,  but  the  school 
only  keeps  here  one  term.  Then  it  goes  down  t'  the 
Point  a  term  and  then  over  t'  Green  Harbor  a  term." 

"  What  do  the  children  do  ;  foller  it  around  ?  " 

"  No ;  it's  four  miles  between  places,  and  that's  too 
fur." 

"  Nearly  all  the  boys  in  town  seem  to  have  bicycles," 
I  said.  "  I  should  think  they  might  go  on  those." 

"  That's  so,  there  is  a  considerable  number  of 
bicycles  owned  round  here,"  acknowledged  Mr. 
Bundy.  "  D'  you  ever  notice  though,  't  a  boy  c'n 
go  almost  any  distance  on  his  bicycle  for  pleasure,  but 
as  f'r  usin'  it  f'r  accomplishin'  anythin',  he  might's 
well  not  have  any  ?  " 

"Well,  I've  got  to  go  home,"  interrupted  the 
young  woman  from  the  neighbor's. 

"  What's  your  rush  ?  "   a  young  fellow  sitting  next 
her  inquired.     "  Thought  I  was  keepin'  company  with 
you.     We  no  need  to  be  stirrin'   before  midnight  - 
'tain't  perlite." 

"Midnight!  what  you  talkin'  about?"  scoffed  the 
landlord.  "  When  I  used  to  go  to  see  my  girl  we  set 
up  till  half-past  six  in  the  morni-n'-- set  up  till  break- 
fast was  ready." 

"  Well,  I  can't  wait  no  longer,"  reiterated  the  girl. 


212  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

"  Hold  on,"  said  the  young  fellow.  "  I'll  borry  a 
lantern  and  go  along  with  you." 

"'Tain't  far,  I  don't  want  ye  to,"  was  the  response. 

"  You  git  over  across  the  street  there  alone  and  the 
thunder'll  strike  you  !  "  the  piano-tuner  remarked. 

But  she  had  gone,  and  he  turned  to  the  young  fel- 
low :  "  Well,  I'm  blessed  if  you  didn't  make  a  muddle 
of  it.  Course  she  wouldn't  go  home  with  you.  Who'd 
go  home  with  a  lantern  !  " 

For  a  time  the  company  lapsed  into  silence  and 
meditated.  Then  some  one  spoke  of  a  schooner  which 
had  come  into  the  bay  and  anchored  the  day  before, 
and  went  on  to  say  that  it  had  eight  or  ten  young  fel- 
lows on  board  from  New  York.  "  They're  sailin'  the 
boat  themselves  except  for  a  cap'n  and  a  darky  cook, 
and  they're  givin'  shows  along  the  coast.  They  give 
one  over  t'  the  Point  last  night." 

"  What  was  it  like?  "  inquired  Mr.  Bundy. 

"  W7ell,  'twas  kind  of  a  mixture,  but  minstrels  much 
as  anything." 

'  There's  a  good  deal  goin'  on  around  here  just 
now,"  commented  the  landlord.  "  To-morrer  night 
there's  a  dance  over  't  Green  Harbor,  and  night  after 
that  there's  a  dance  here." 

"  Isn't  it  pretty  hot  weather  for  dancing?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  I'll  warrant  there'll  be  some  sweatin'  ;  but  we 
don't  mind  that.  We  dance  in  spells  all  the  year, 
though  we  ain't  had  any  dances  lately,  since  winter." 


Down  in   Maine  213 

"  How  much  is  the  admission  ?  " 

"  Ladies  are  free.  The  men  pays  fifty  cents  each, 
or  fifteen  cents  if  they  come  in  to  look  on  and  not  to 
dance.  But  you  wait  till  next  week.  We're  goin'  to 
have  a  regular  town  show  then.  You've  seen  the 
posters,  I  s'pose.  There's  one  in  the  office,  and 
they're  all  around  the  town  —  on  fences  and  trees  and 
barn  doors,  and  I  do'  know  what  not.  The  fellers  't 
put  'em  up  said  they  plastered  one  on  to  the  back  of 
every  girl  they  met.  Course  that's  talk,  but  I  know 
they  pasted  some  on  to  Bill  Esty's  meat  cart." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  piano-tuner,  "  and  they  got  one 
on  to  Cap'n  Totwick's  private  kerridge,  too." 

"Private  darnation  !  "  responded  Mr.  Bundy.  "The 
only  private  kerridge  Cap'n  Totwick's  got  's  that  ram- 
shackle old  wagon  he  peddles  fish  in." 

"  I  met  the  cap'n  when  I  come  Monday,"  the  piano- 
tuner  went  on.  "  I  was  standin'  out  in  front  o'  the 
post-office  readin'  a  letter  when  he  drove  up  from  his 
house  just  startin'  out  on  a  trip,  and  he  stopped  and 
told  me  he'd  forgot  to  take  his  horse's  tail  out  o'  the 
britchin' when  he  was  harnessin',  and  if  I'd  switch  it 
out  for  him  't  would  save  him  gittin'  out.  I  see  the 
bill  pasted  on  his  wagon  then,  and  to  pay  for  my  horse- 
tail job  I  made  him  wait  while  I  read  it  through." 

"  Say,  you  wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  him,"  said 
the  landlord,  "  but  Cap'n  Totwick's  got  a  good  lot 
o'  money  salted  down." 


214  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

"  He  dresses  like  an  old  scarecrow,"  responded  the 
piano-tuner,  "  and  five  dollars'd  be  a  big  price  for  that 
hoss  he  drives." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Bundy,  "  I  was  at  the  post-office 
one  day  and  the  cap'n  come  in  just  as  I  was  sayin' 
I  wanted  to  git  a  sixty  dollar  check  cashed,  and  he 
reached  down  into  his  old  overhalls  for  his  pocket-book, 
and  cashed  the  check  —  yes,  sir!" 

Thus  the  talk  rambled  on  from  one  topic  to  another 
through  the  long  evening.  I  can  only  suggest  in  what 
I  have  related  its  racy  interest  and  the  graphic  glimpses 
it  afforded  of  the  life  and  thought  of  the  region ;  and 
when  I  think  it  over  I  am  glad  I  avoided  the  famous 
resorts  and  big  hotels  in  my  trip  and  took  up  lodgings 
in  that  humble  hostelry  at  Sou'  East  Cove. 


A  Moonlit  Evening 


X 


ALONG    THE    JUNIATA 

FI FTY  years  ago 
that  idyllic  lit- 
tle song,  "  The 
Blue  Juniata,"  was 
known  by  every  one. 
It  is  very  simple,  and 
yet  the  sentiment  of 
the  words  and  the 
gay,  easily  caught  har- 
mony of  the  music 
pleased  the  public 
fancy,  and  it  was  not 
only  universally  sung, 
but  parents  named 
their  children  after 
the  heroine,  and  boat- 
owners  adopted  the 
The  Home  Porch  name  for  their  boats. 

The  song  is  not  now  as  widely  and  ardently  beloved 
as    formerly,   though   it  still   charms,   and   it    is   to   be 

215 


2i6  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

found    in    the   popular   collections.      The    first    verse 
is  — 

"  Wild  roved  an  Indian  girl, 

Bright  Alfarata, 
Where  sweep  the  waters 

Of  the  blue  Juniata. 
Swift  as  an  antelope 

Thro'  the  forest  going, 
Loose  were  her  jetty  locks 

In  wavy  tresses  flowing." 

What  always  impressed  me  most  in  this  and  the 
other  three  verses  of  the  song  was  the  river.  Its 
beauty,  I  thought,  must  be  superlative  —  the  blue 
Juniata  and  the  sweep  of  the  waters  —  how  delightful ! 
The  rhythm  of  the  river's  name,  too,  made  a  strong 
appeal  to  my  imagination,  and  it  was  these  things  more 
than  anything  else  that  impelled  me  to  visit  the  stream 
toward  the  close  of  a  recent  summer.  I  did  not  get 
acquainted  with  its  upper  course,  but  kept  to  the  hilly 
country  through  which  it  flows  for  many  miles  before 
it  empties  into  the  Susquehanna.  On  either  side  are 
frequent  wooded  ridges  extending  away  at  right  angles, 
with  pleasant  farming  vales  between.  Numerous  little 
towns  are  scattered  along  the  banks,  each  with  a  cov- 
ered wooden  bridge  reaching  across  the  stream.  The 
river  is  too  small  and  shallow  to  be  used  for  traffic, 
and  it  is  never  enlivened  by  anything  larger  than  row- 
boats.  It  has  hardly  the  rollicking  character  suggested 


Along  the  Juniata  217 

by  the  song  which  has  made  it  famous,  and  yet  its  only 
serious  fault,  as  I  saw  it,  was  its  color. 

"  No,  it  ain't  blue  just  now,"  said  a  farmer,  on  whose 
piazza  I  had  taken  refuge  to  escape  a  shower,  "  but 
it  is  usually.  This  year,  though,  we've  been  having 
rains  constant,  and  the  river's  been  muddy  all  summer. 
There  ain't  been  a  single  time  when  we  could  go 

gigging." 

"  Gigging  !     What  is  that  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  Ain't  you  ever  gigged  ?  " 

I  confessed  that  I  had  not. 

"Well,  gigging  is  going  out  in  a  boat  at  night  with 
a  lantern  and  a  spear  after  fish.  Sometimes  we  get  fish 
that  long"  —  placing  his  hands  about  two  feet  apart  — 
"  carp,  you  know." 

From  where  we  were  sitting  we  looked  across  a 
grassy  yard  enclosed  by  a  picket  fence.  The  fence 
was  designed  primarily  to  keep  out  the  hens  and 
other  farm  animals,  but  it  came  very  handy  as  a 
hanging-place  for  pails  and  crocks  and  various  house- 
hold odds  and  ends.  The  crocks  were  especially 
conspicuous.  Indeed  they  were  to  be  found  on 
nearly  all  the  farmyard  fences  throughout  the  region  ; 
for  the  people  were  accustomed  to  put  their  milk  in 
crocks  instead  of  in  pans.  On  this  particular  fence 
there  was  quite  a  line  of  these  crocks  —  squat,  heavy 
earthen  jars  that  would  each  hold  about  four  quarts. 
In  color  they  were  light  brown,  excepting  one  of  a 


218 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


deep  brick  tint,  which  the  man  said  had  been  his 
grandmother's,  and  was,  he  supposed,  more  than  a 
hundred  years  old. 

"  This  house  is  old,  too,"  he  added  —  "  anyways  the 
end  toward  the  road  is.      It  is  an  old   Indian  house, 


The  Dooryard  Fence 

and  that  end  is  built  of  logs.  There  used  to  be  loop- 
holes in  it  to  shoot  from,  but  the  logs  and  everything 
has  been  boarded  over  and  hid  from  sight  this  long 
time,  inside  and  out.  It  seems  as  if  Indians  must  have 
been  plenty  here  once.  We're  always  ploughing  up 
their  arrow-tips  and  tomahawks." 

The  shower  was  nearly  past,  and  the  man  stepped 
out  into  the  yard  and  picked  several  clusters  of  grapes 
from  a  vine  that  trailed  up  a  tall  pear  tree.  "  These're 


Along  the  Juniata  219 

right  nice,  now,"  he  remarked,  as  he  handed  me 
some. 

"  Which  do  you  get  most  of —  pears  or  grapes  — 
from  that  tree  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Well,  since  the  vine's  growed  over  the  whole  tree 
we  often  won't  get  more'n  half  a  bushel  o'  the  pears, 
but  you  c'n  see  we'll  get  a  good  lot  o'  grapes  this 
year." 

When  the  last  lingering  drops  of  the  rain  had  fallen 
I  returned  to  the  muddy  road.  A  mile's  tramping 
along  its  sticky  trail  brought  me  to  a  railway  station, 
and  I  sat  down  to  rest  on  a  platform  truck.  Every 
few  minutes  a  freight  train  would  go  thundering  past. 
The  valley  is  a  great  railroad  thoroughfare  ;  for  the 
stream  has  graded  a  pathway  through  the  hills  directly 
toward  the  coal  and  iron  regions  of  the  western  part  of 
the  state.  The  trains  were  very  long,  and  often  con- 
tained from  sixty  to  eighty  cars.  How  the  engines  did 
pant  and  sway  from  side  to  side  as  they  shouldered 
along,  dragging  their  mighty  burdens  ! 

"  I  suppose  the  weight  of  that  there  train  is  almost 
beyond  computation,"  said  a  sunburned,  middle-aged 
man,  who  had  sat  down  on  the  truck  near  me  just  as  a 
train  of  monstrous  coal  cars,  all  loaded  to  the  brim, 
clattered  past. 

This  remark  led  to  a  conversation,  and  the  man  told 
me  he  had  a  farm  a  few  miles  back  from  the  river.  It 
was  a  little  farm  —  only  fifteen  acres — and  I  judged 


22O  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

he  did  not  depend  entirely  on  it  for  a  living.  At  any 
rate  he  mentioned  that  the  previous  spring  when  the 
floods  had  washed  away  nearly  all  the  bridges  in  his 
town  he  had  taken  the  time  to  help  for  several  weeks 
rebuilding  them.  But  his  farm  had  suffered  as  a  conse- 
quence. "  I  bought  a  sprayer  for  my  trees,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  only  got  a  chance  to  use  it  on  one  side  of  one 
apple  tree,  and  that  tree  is  just  loaded  on  the  side  I 
sprayed  and  you  kin  hardly  find  another  apple  on  the 
place." 

Speaking  of  the  farms  in  the  district  as  a  whole,  he 
said  that  while  some  ran  up  to  two  and  three  hundred 
acres  or  even  larger,  a  hundred  acres  was  considered  a 
fair-sized  farm  and  there  were  more  under  that  figure 
than  over.  The  tendency  is  for  the  farms  to  divide 
into  smaller  ones.  The  majority  of  them  are  mort- 
gaged, and  the  farmers  are  just  about  able  to  meet  their 
interest  charges  and  other  expenses  and  hold  their  own. 
"  Yes,  it  takes  some  scratching  to  pay  a  mortgage," 
my  companion  declared.  "  You  wunst  get  one  and 
it  hangs  on  and  hangs  on  and  you're  likely  to  be  left 
in  the  brush  in  the  end." 

It  was  his  opinion  that  the  local  farmers  had  not 
shared  the  prosperity  of  the  country  in  recent  years ; 
and  yet  some  of  their  troubles  were  of  their  own  mak- 
ing. There  was  the  way  they  went  into  life  insurance, 
for  instance.  I  did  not  clearly  understand  the  relation 
of  cause  and  effect  in  parts  of  what  he  had  to  say  on 


AFTER  THE  DAY'S  WORK 


Along  the  Juniata  221 

this  subject.  Life  insurance  was  evidently  a  great  bug- 
bear to  him.  He  looked  on  it  as  the  wildest  kind  of 
speculation  and  may  have  got  something  of  a  different 
nature  mixed  with  his  narrative. 

"  We  have  had  people  that  was  well  fixed,  and  life 
insurance  has  made  'em  poor,"  he  affirmed.  "  There 
was  one  man  I  know  that  went  into  it  right  strong,  and 
he  kep'  makin'  until  he  had  twenty- five  thousand 
dollars,  and  he  was  tellin'  a  neigh-bor  man  about  it ;  and 
this  neighbor,  he  was  a  good  old  Christian  man,  and  he 
said, '  Now  stop,  you've  got  a  good  house  and  buildings 
and  a  good  farm  and  you've  got  all  that  money. 
You're  the  richest  man  in  these  parts.  Now  stop 
where  you  are.' 

"  But  the  man  said  he  was  goin'  to  go  in  again  and 
double  his  twenty-five  thousand  and  then  he'd  stop. 
So  he  insured  some  more  and  lost  all  he  had,  and  last 
week  his  farm  was  sold  at  auction  for  thirty-seven 
hundred  dollars. 

"  The  insurance  agents  are  always  goin'  about  among 
us  tryin'  to  get  us  to  insure,  and  I'll  tell  you  jus'  how 
mean  and  low  and  devilish  they  are;  and  I'm  a  man 
of  truth,  mister,  and  you  can  depen'  on  what  I  say. 
They  try  to  make  you  insure  your  relatives  that  are 
gettin'  old.  Now,  I  call  that  devilish.  I  intend  to 
live  right,  I'm  a  member  of  the  church  and  of  the 
Sunday-school,  and  I'm  a  delegate  to-day  on  my  way 
to  a  church  meetin'.  Well,  they  been  after  me 


222  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

to  insure  my  parents ;  but  I  don't  want  to  harbor  the 
thought  that  I  could  make  money  by  their  dying. 
There  was  one  feller  bothered  me  special.  My  father 
was  gettin'  feeble  and  he  was  a  consumptive  man,  and 
this  agent  was  forever  urgin'  me  to  insure  my  old 
father  for  ten  thousand  dollars. 

"  I  didn't  like  to  be  dragged  into  a  thing  I  knew 
the  devil  was  in,  but  he  kep'  at  me,  till  one  day  he 
come  when  I  had  the  toothache  and  neuralgia.  I 
thought  my  eyes  was  goin'  to  bust  out  of  my  head  ; 
and  I  said,  '  I  don't  want  to  see  you  no  more.  If  you 
come  here  again  —  unless  you've  got  the  law  to  pro- 
tect you  in  your  business — I'll  kill  you  or  cripple 
you  for  life.  I'd  do  it  now,  but  you've  jus'  hit  me  on 
the  wrong  day.  I  got  the  toothache  and  the  neuralgia 
so  I  ain't  fit  to  do  nothing.' 

"  That's  what  I  tol'  him,  and  he  never  dared  show 
himself  there  again. 

"  Some  folks  gets  their  insurance  money  by  fraud. 
I  know  a  man  that  made  out  a  certificate  declarin'  a 
certain  person  had  died  that  hadn't.  He  is  a  man  that 
pretends  he  is  a  minister  and  signs  '  Rev.'  to  his  name, 
but  he  is  so  ignorant  he  don't  know  enough  hardly  to 
direct  his  poor  little  children  aright. 

"  The  Good  Book  says,  '  What  a  man  sows  that 
he'll  reap,'  and  it's  true.  Most  of 'em  that  insure  has 
a  pretty  hard  time.  The  payments  have  to  be  made 
and  that  takes  all  that  them  who  are  insured  kin  earn, 


Along  the  Juniata  223 

and  a  good  many  times  it  eats  up  all  their  property. 
Men  that  was  well-to-do  have  got  shaky  and  are  about 
halfway  on  each  side  o'  the  fence.  You  can't  tell  when 
they'll  have  to  drop  everythin'. 

"  There's  a  case  like  that  right  next  to  me.  My 
neighbor,  he  got  his  mother-in-law  insured.  He  was 
a  poor  man,  but  he  didn't  think  she'd  live  long,  and 
he  paid  on  and  paid  on  until  he  about  broke  his  neck. 
I  was  talkin'  with  him  only  lately,  and  he  was  askin' 
me  what  he  better  do. 

"  I  tol'  him,  '  Unless  you  stick  to  it  you'll  lose  all 
you've  put  in.' 

"  That  didn't  make  him  feel  any  better,  and  he 
swore  and  called  his  mother-in-law  a  bad  name,  and 
said  every  one  died  but  the  right  one.  Now,  ain't 
that  devilish  ?  " 

I  had  to  acknowledge  that  the  spectacle  of  this  man 
anxiously  awaiting  the  demise  of  his  mother-in-law  was 
not  at  all  admirable,  even  supposing  her  character  fur- 
nished mitigating  circumstances.  What  further  in- 
formation I  might  have  gathered  on  the  subject  of 
insurance  I  do  not  know,  for  my  friend's  train  came 
in  just  then  and  we  parted  company. 

During  my  wanderings  along  the  Juniata  I  went  up 
several  of  the  side  valleys,  and  found  them  uniformly 
fertile  and  attractive.  I  wondered  if  my  acquaintance 
at  the  railroad  station  was  not  mistaken  about  the 
prevalence  of  mortgages,  but  I  was  assured  by  others 


224  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

that  he  was  not.  Certainly  the  broad,  smooth  fields, 
and  the  numerous  herds  grazing  on  the  aftermath  in 
the  home  lots,  and  the  substantial  houses  and  great 
barns  were  suggestive  of  comfort  and  plenty.  The 
dwellings  were  in  most  cases  wooden ;  but  brick  and 
stone  were  not  infrequent.  The  home  vicinity  had 
always  a  pastoral,  domestic  air.  You  were  sure  to  see 
cats  aplenty,  and  a  loitering  dog  or  two  ;  hens  and 
chickens  were  everywhere,  and  it  was  not  unlikely  the 
farm  poultry  would  include  ducks  and  turkeys ; 


Typical  Outbuildings 

pigeons  fluttered  about  the  roofs  of  the  whitewashed 
outbuildings,  a  bevy  of  calves  would  be  feeding  in 
a  near  field,  and  you  could  hear  the  pigs  grunting  in 
the  hog-sheds. 

Wheat  was  the  leading  crop  of  the  region,  and  most 
barnyards  at  that  season  contained  a  towering  stack  of 


Along  the  Junlata  225 

straw,  somewhat  undermined  by  the  gnawings  of  the 
cattle.  Indian  corn  was  another  heavy  crop.  The 
grain  raised  was  nearly  all  ground  locally,  and  every 
town  had  its  grist-mill,  usually  a  big  stone  structure  in 
a  vernal  hollow,  with  a  placid  mill-pond  just  above. 


A  Grist-mill 

These  mills  were  delightfully  rustic,  and  they  had  a 
pleasing  air  of  age  and  repose.  I  liked,  too,  their 
floury  odor.  There  was  something  very  sweet  and 
primal  about  it,  as  of  a  genuine  fruit  of  the  earth  — 
not  simply  a  tickler  of  the  palate,  but  an  essential  sus- 
tainer  of  human  life.  I  approached  one  of  the  mills 
and  asked  a  young  fellow  who  was  smoking  his  pipe 
in  the  doorway  if  they  allowed  visitors. 

"  Depen's  on  what  sort  o'  'umor  the  captain's  in," 
said  he,  and  turned  and  spoke  to  some  one  in  the  mill. 


226  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

The  "  'umor  of  the  captain,"  or  proprietor,  proved 
to  be  agreeable,  and  I  spent  half  an  hour  looking 
about  the  dusty,  cobwebby  old  building,  with  its  big 
wheels  and  hoppers,  and  heaps  of  grain,  and  bags  of 
flour  and  meal. 

I  returned  to  the  road  presently  and  resumed  my 
walk,  and  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on  came  to  a 
cider-mill  that  had  just  begun  its  autumn  work.  It 
was  a  shaky  little  skeleton  of  a  structure  on  the  banks 
of  the  creek,  with  a  blacksmith's  shanty  adjoining  ; 
and  the  mill  and  shop  together  drew  a  crowd.  A 
bellows  wheezed  and  a  hammer  clanked  from  the 
dusky  recesses  of  the  shop ;  a  horse  was  being  shod, 
and  its  mate,  still  hitched  to  the  heavy  farm-wagon, 
stood  half  asleep  outside.  A  small  engine  puffed  and 
rattled  within  the  mill,  and  a  farmer  at  one  side  was 
shovelling  a  load  of  apples  into  the  hopper.  Other 
loads  were  waiting  their  turn,  each  with  an  empty 
barrel  or  two  on  top.  A  group  of  children  lingered 
about  looking  on  and  eating  apples  which  they  selected 
from  the  wagons,  and  a  number  of  men  were  sitting  or 
standing  here  and  there,  visiting  and  chaffing  and  oc- 
casionally stepping  up  into  the  mill  to  take  a  drink 
of  cider  from  a  tin  cup  that  hung  handy. 

Most  of  the  cider  the  farmers  were  then  making  was 
to  be  boiled  down  for  use  in  preparing  a  winter's 
supply  of  cider  apple-sauce,  or  apple-butter,  as  it  was 
called.  Apparently  no  family  could  do  without  this 


Along  the  Juniata  227 

culinary  luxury,  and  I  saw  the  process  of  manufacture 
going  on  in  many  a  back  yard.  It  was  important  that 
the  cider  should  be  boiled  while  it  was  perfectly  sweet ; 
and  as  soon  as  possible  after  it  had  been  brought  home, 
a  great  copper  kettle  was  set  up  in  some  convenient 
spot,  filled  with  cider,  and  a  fire  built  underneath.  The 


Making  Apple-butter 

rule  was  to  boil  the  cider  three-fourths  away  ;  and  if  the 
boiling  was  started  early  in  the  morning,  it  would  be 
completed  by  noon.  The  scene  presented  was  quite 
gypsylike,  with  the  crackling  flames,  and  the  splutter- 
ing, bubbling  pot,  and  the  smoke  and  vapors,  and  the 
sunbonneted  women  hovering  about. 


228  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

When  the  cider  had  been  properly  reduced,  the 
pared  and  sliced  apples  were  added,  and  flavored  — 
perhaps  with  cinnamon,  or  perhaps  with  allspice  and 
cloves.  The  boiling  of  the  apple-sauce  would  very 
probably  continue  into  the  evening.  All  through  the 
afternoon  the  women  took  turns  in  keeping  the  con- 
tents of  the  pot  stirring,  for  which  purpose  they  used 
a  wooden  paddle  with  a  very  long  handle  inserted  at  a 
right  angle.  It  was  a  relief  to  every  one  concerned, 
when  the  apple-butter  had  thickened  and  was  pro- 
nounced done.  Now  it  only  needed  to  be  taken  up 
with  a  dipper  and  put  into  casks  or  earthen  crocks  and 
it  was  ready  to  be  set  away.  Some  households  were 
content  with  fifteen  or  twenty  gallons,  but  others 
thought  they  could  not  get  along  with  less  than  a 
«bar'l"  full. 

Skirting  the  north  bank  of  the  Juniata  was  the 
ditch  of  an  old  canal.  In  the  bottom  was  more  or 
less  stagnant  water,  but  for  the  most  part  the  hollow 
was  overgrown  with  grass  and  weeds.  Conspicuous 
among  the  latter  were  the  sturdy,  wide-branching  Jim- 
son  weeds,  set  full  of  round,  spiny  pods  that  were  be- 
ginning to  crack  open  and  scatter  their  seeds.  One 
day  I  came  across  a  man  hacking  at  these  jimsons 
with  his  scythe.  The  sun  was  low  in  the  west,  and 
he  was  about  to  desist.  "  There's  a  heap  to  cut  yit," 
he  said.  "  I  ought  to  'a'  started  the  job  earlier." 

I  was  less  interested  at  the  moment  in  jimsons  than 


Along  the  Juniata  229 

in  finding  lodging  for  the  night,  and  I  asked  the  man 
where  such  shelter  was  to  be  had.  He  replied  that  I 
might  perhaps  stay  with  him  —  but  he  would  have  to 
see  his  wife  first.  Then,  after  mentioning  that  his 
name  was  Werner,  he  led  the  way  up  a  stony  lane  to 
a  tidy  farm-house  on  a  knoll  well  above  the  river.  We 
went  into  a  shed  kitchen  at  the  rear  of  the  dwelling, 
where  we  found  the  farmer's  wife  and  daughter  busy 
drying  peaches  in  the  stove  oven.  They  agreed  that 
I  could  stay,  and  I  sat  down  by  the  fire.  The  room 
swarmed  with  flies  and  midges,  but  otherwise  was  not 
unattractive. 

Mrs.  Werner  from  time  to  time  stepped  to  an  out- 
building for  wood.  The  supply  was  nearly  exhausted, 
and  some  of  the  sticks  she  brought  in  were  pretty  poor 
specimens.  "  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  what  we 
shall  do  if  we  don't  get  more  wood  soon,"  she  re- 
marked to  her  daughter.  "  My,  oh  my,  that  there 
cherry  we're  burnin'  now  is  awful  !  " 

They  had  no  woodland  on  the  farm,  and  hitherto 
had  depended  on  line  trees,  orchard  trees  that  had 
passed  their  usefulness,  and  other  waste  about  the 
place.  But  these  resources  had  of  late  been  practically 
exhausted,  and  Mr.  Werner  was  planning  soon  to  row 
up  the  river  in  partnership  with  a  neighbor  and  collect 
a  lot  of  old  railway  ties  that  had  been  dumped  down 
the  bank.  They  would  fasten  them  together  with 
wire  into  a  raft  and  tow  them  down. 


230  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 


I  had  not  been  long  in  the  house  before  it  began  to 
get  dark,  and  the  daughter  lit  a  lamp.     Through  the 

open  door  1 
could  hear  the 
cattle  lowing  in 
the  fields,  some 
calves  were 
running  uneas- 
ily back  and 
forth  in  the  or- 
chard anxious 
to  be  fed,  and 
the  hens  and 
chickens  were 
crowding  to- 
gether on  a  pile 
of  rails  just  out- 
side the  picket 
fence  that  sur- 
rounded the 
yard,  peeping 
comfortably 
when  things 
were  settling  to 
their  wishes 

Childhood  Treasures  an(J      uttering 

sharp  notes  of  alarm   and  protest  when  matters  were 
otherwise. 


Along  the  juniata  Ijl 

At  length  a  boy  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  appeared, 
went  to  the  pump  on  the  borders  of  the  barn-yard,  and 
labored  at  the  handle  until  he  had  water  enough  in  the 
accompanying  trough  for  the  two  mules  and  span  of 
horses  that  were  kept  on  the  place.  Then  he  called 
the  dog  and  went  after  the  cows.  By  the  time  he 
returned,  his  mother  had  set  the  potatoes  and  beef  fry- 
ing for  supper.  She  now  left  her  daughter  to  finish 
while  she  took  a  pail  and  went  to  the  barn  to  help 
milk.  All  the  farmers'  wives  in  the  region  milked. 
Usually  the  work  was  shared  with  the  men,  but  on 
some  farms  it  fell  to  the  women  altogether.  The  girls 
learned  to  milk  as  a  matter  of  course  and  were  said  to 
enjoy  it.  The  care  of  the  garden  was  another  task 
with  which  the  women  had  much  to  do.  The  men 
ploughed  or  spaded  the  plot  in  the  spring,  but  the 
planting,  hoeing,  and  gathering  of  produce  was  rele- 
gated to  the  wives.  None  of  the  field  work  was  done 

o 

by  the  women  ordinarily,  and  yet  they  were  very  apt 
to  help  during  haying  and  harvesting,  in  seasons  when 
hired  men  were  scarce. 

The  milk  of  the  Werner  farm  went  to  a  creamery. 
It  was  collected  daily  and  the  skim  milk  returned. 
Just  then  the  price  paid  was  one  and  one-half  cents  a 
quart,  and  it  rarely  went  above  two  cents.  As  soon  as 
Mrs.  Werner  finished  milking  and  had  washed  her 
hands  at  a  bench  outside  the  door,  she  resumed  supper 
preparations,  and  we  presently  gathered  at  the  table. 


New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

The  clock  struck  eight  while  Mr.  Werner  was  asking 
the  blessing.  "  It's  later'n  it  is  usually  at  this  time," 
said  he,  "  but  we  been  extra  driven  with  work  to-day. 


Farm  Market  Wagons 

Help  yourself,"  he  added,  making  a  little  gesture 
toward  the  food.  "  We  ain't  much  for  waitin'  on 
folks." 

After  supper  the  women  cleared  the  table,  washed 
the  dishes  and  the  milk-pails,  and  attended  to  the  dry- 
ing peaches.  The  boy  went  off  to  another  room  to 
study  his  algebra  lesson  for  the  next  day  at  school. 
Mr.  Werner  and  I  sat  and  talked.  "  We  have  to 
work  pretty  hard,"  he  said,  "and  we'd  ought  to  keep 
a  hired  man,  but  we  can't  afford  it.  I've  had  bad  luck 
this  year.  I  lost  a  good  young  horse  in  the  spring,  and 
then  come  July  I  lost  most  half  of  my  young  cattle. 
The  cattle  was  with  other  young  stock  from  the  neigh- 


Along  the  Juniata  233 

bors  out  on  a  mountain  pasture.  We  paid  the  owner 
of  the  land  for  the  grazing  privilege,  and  he  was  to  look 
after  the  cattle ;  but  he  was  careless  and  a  good  many 
of  'em  got  into  a  ravine  between  two  ridges  and  couldn't 
find  their  way  out.  There  wa'n't  no  feed,  and  they  e't 
laurel.  That  poisoned  'em  and  they  died.  I  ain't  had 
no  such  bad  luck  since  the  flood." 

"  The  flood  !      When  was  that  ?  "    I  inquired. 

"In  1889,"  was  the  reply.  "The  Juniata  ain't 
naturally  a  deep  stream.  You  could  wade  it  almost 
anywhere,  though  you  might  get  your  shirt  collar  wet 
in  some  places.  But  when  we  had  the  big  flood,  you 
couldn't  'a'  touched  bottom  with  a  fifty-foot  pole.  It 
rained  for  three  days  about  the  first  of  June,  and  the 
last  night  o'  the  rain  it  come  down  in  slathers.  We 
could  hear  it  leakin'  in  the  garret,  and  my  wife,  she 
kind  o'  thought  we  better  get  up  and  see  to  things. 
I  wish  we  had.  When  we  looked  out  in  the  mornin' 
the  river  was  way  out  o'  the  banks,  and  the  water  was 
beginnin'  to  come  into  the  lower  side  o'  the  yard.  It 
was  risin'  fast,  and  we  stepped  aroun'  lively.  We  got 
some  o'  the  furniture  upstairs,  and  I  turned  the  stock 
out  toward  the  higher  land.  Come  nine  o'clock  we 
couldn't  stay  no  longer,  and  I  had  to  lay  boards  from 
the  piazza  for  the  women  to  walk  on,  and  when  I  left, 
last  of  all,  I  had  to  wade  up  to  my  waist. 

"  My  cows  was  all  saved,  but  my  hogs  didn't  have 
no  more  sense'n  to  swim  back  to  the  pen,  and  they 


234  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

was  all  drownded  but  one.  The  chickens  was  bound 
to  stay  too.  They  got  onto  the  manure  heap  in  the 
barn-yard  and  sailed  away  with  it.  All  my  sheds  and 
most  o'  the  fences  floated  off.  The  barn  stood  on  a 
little  higher  groun'  than  the  rest  o'  the  buildings,  but  it 
was  undermined  and  was  left  in  such  bad  shape  I  had 
to  build  a  new  one.  The  only  thing  that  kep'  my 
house  from  goin'  was  one  o'  those  big  old  chimneys 
built  right  in  the  middle  of  it.  Why,  in  that  flood,  if 
we  was  settin'  where  we  are  now,  we'd  be  way  under 
water.  It  come  within  three  inches  o'  the  ceilin'. 
Everything  on  this  floor  was  about  ruined. 

"  The  river  was  full  of  all  sorts  of  things,  and  the 
bridges  was  all  swep'  away  and  the  crops  spoiled,  and 
it  was  terrible.  It  was  that  flood  that  did  up  our  canal. 
There  was  a  canal-boat  tied  right  about  opposite  our 
house  when  the  storm  begun,  and  as  the  water  riz  they 
kep'  shiftin'  the  boat  until  they  got  it  away  out  back 
of  the  house  in  the  orchard  where  they  hitched  it  to 
the  trees.  The  river  was  only  out  of  its  banks  two  or 
three  days,  but  the  walls  o'  the  canal  was  broken  in  lots 
o'  places  and  other  damage  done  to  it,  and  the  com- 
pany just  left  it  as  it  was.  Yes,  that  was  a  right  smart 
of  a  flood." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  narration  Mr.  Werner 
conducted  me  to  my  room.  All  was  oblivion  after  I 
retired  until  about  four  in  the  morning,  when  I  heard 
the  farmer  calling  to  his  son  from  the  foot  of  the 


Along  the  Junlata  235 

stairs  in  slow  cadence,  "  Fred,  Fred,  Fred  !  do  you 
hear  me  ?  " 

"  Uh-h-h  !  "  grunted  Fred,  sleepily. 

"  Come  awn ! " 

A  pause  and  no  response. 

"  Fred,  Fred,  Fred  !  do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"Uh-h-h!" 

"  Come  awn  !      Don't  pull  the  covers  over  you  !  " 

Silence  and  a  repetition  of  the  above  dialogue  with 
slight  variations  continued  for  fully  five  minutes. 
Then  the  father  went  out  to  the  barn  and  I  dropped 
off  to  sleep.  So  did  Fred,  no  doubt,  for  a  half-hour 
later  the  parental  voice  resumed  its  appeal  from  the 
foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Fred,  Fred,  Fred  !  do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"Uh-h-h!" 

"  Come  awn  !  "  etc.,  as  before. 

At  length  the  father  a  second  time  went  out,  but 
stopped  in  the  yard  and  added  a  few  supplementary 
calls.  Still  Fred  slumbered,  and  presently  in  came  his 
father  from  the  barn  again.  He  was  ominously  silent, 
and  he  did  not  stay  below.  I  heard  him  ascend  the 
stairs  with  wrathful  footfalls,  enter  Fred's  room,  and 
haul  the  young  man  out  of  bed  by  main  force.  I  won- 
dered whether  he  did  this  every  day. 

By  breakfast  time  at  half-past  six  all  the  barn  work 
was  done,  and  the  brimming  pails  of  milk  were  stand- 
ing at  the  kitchen  door  waiting  to  be  strained.  Fred 


236  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

came  in  a  little  late.  He  had  been  to  the  river  with 
his  gun,  hoping  to  shoot  a  duck. 

"  No,  I  didn't  get  nawthing,"  he  said  in  response  to 
a  question  of  his  sister's,  as  he  carried  a  basin  of  water 
from  the  back-room  pump  to  the  bench  outside. 
Then  he  spit  vigorously,  washed  his  hands  and  face, 
and  spit  again.  Expectoration  was  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  everything  he  did. 

"  No,  I  didn't  get  nawthing,"  he  repeated  when  he 
sat  down  at  the  table,  "  but  I  see  a  loon.  I  didn't 
meddle  with  him,  though." 

"Why  not?"  I  inquired. 

"  Well,  I  had  some  experience  with  one  last  year. 
He  was  swimmin'  in  the  river,  and  the  boys  all  got 
out  their  guns  and  he  had  some  fun  with  us.  He'd 
dodge  quicker'n  lightnin'.  By  the  time  our  shot  got 
to  him,  he'd  be  out  of  sight  and  the  ripples  circlin' 
away  from  where  he'd  dove.  I  had  a  rifle,  and  I  thought 
that  would  fetch  him,  sure,  but  I  fired  more'n  twenty 
times  and  never  hit  him  only  once,  and  all  I  did  then 
was  to  snip  off  a  few  feathers." 

Mr.  Werner  did  not  quite  approve  of  Fred's  hunt- 
ing. "  We  use  to  have  great  flocks  of  ducks  fly  up 
and  down  this  river,"  he  said.  "  There'd  be  twenty 
or  thirty  or  more  in  a  flock.  Now,  we  think  it's  a  big 
flock  if  we  see  half  a  dozen,  and  we  don't  have  wood- 
duck  any  more,  but  only  fish-ducks  that  ain't  good  to 
eat,  and  a  little  duck  they  call  the  butter-duck.  It 


ONE  OF  THE  STREET  PUMPS 


Along  the  Juniata  237 

don't  make  no  difference,  though.  Every  one's  boun* 
to  shoot,  and  they  fire  away  more  lead  at  the  ducks, 
tryin'  to  hit  'em,  than  those  they  get  are  worth  —  a 
good  deal." 

Across  the  river  from  the  Werners'  was  a  village 
where  I  spent  some  time  after  1  left  the  farm-house. 
Like  the  other  hamlets  I  saw  in  the  valley,  this  village 
had  a  look  distinctly  Teutonic  and  foreign.  Its 
narrow  streets,  its  stubby,  cut-back  trees,  its  paved 
walks  and  gutters,  and  general  stiffness  were  reminis- 
cent of  Holland,  yet  it  lacked  Dutch  cleanliness,  and 
was  tinged  with  an  unthrifty  decay  and  dilapidation. 
Among  the  wooden  houses  crowding  close  along  the 
walks  were  many  small  stores  and  shops  which  earned 
their  proprietors  a  meagre  living  by  serving  the  tribu- 
tary farming  region.  The  farm  buggies  and  buck- 
boards,  carryalls,  market  and  lumber  wagons  came  and 
went,  but  were  never  numerous  enough  to  greatly 
enliven  the  place  or  to  very  much  disturb  its  tranquil 
repose.  Hitching-places,  invariably  in  the  form  of 
wooden  posts  with  iron  rods  connecting  the  tops, 
were  provided  in  front  of  or  near  by  all  the  public 
buildings  and  larger  stores. 

The  walks  were  sometimes  of  boards,  but  oftener 
were  of  brick  or  rough,  irregular  slabs  of  flagging. 
At  intervals  on  them  were  great  wooden  pumps  that 
each  served  a  number  of  neighboring  families.  But 
perhaps  the  most  interesting  feature  of  the  town,  and 


238  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

one  calculated  to  help  immensely  the  village  gossip  and 
sociability,  was  the  porch  that  projected  from  nearly 


every  house  front,  and  which  rarely  failed  to  have  a 
seat   flanking   the   door   on   either  side.     These  seats 


On  the  Juniata 


239 


were  permanent,  each  a  short  settee  with  room  for  two 
persons.  They  looked  very  domestic,  and  were  sug- 
gestive of  much  chatting  of  a  placid  sort,  and  of  the 
calmness  and  phlegmatic  ease  that  seemed  to  charac- 
terize the  people  not  only  of  the  hamlet  but  of  the 
entire  district.  This  staidness  of  demeanor  on  the 
part  of  the  inhabitants  and  the  gentle  aspect  presented 
by  nature  were  not  at  all  what  I  had  anticipated.  In- 
deed, I  found  little  either  in  the  local  life  or  in  the 
appearance  of  the  river  and  the  country  bordering  to 
recall  the  wild  romantic  flavor  of  that  favorite  song  of 
a  half-century  ago,  "  The  Blue  Juniata." 


1 


The  Juniata 


XI 


DWELLERS    AMONG    THE    CATSKILLS 


S 


EPTEMBER 

had  arrived,  and 
the  Catskill  farm- 
ers were  cutting  their 
corn,  digging  their  po- 
tatoes, and  getting  in 
their  late  millet.  As 
for  the  summer  peo- 
ple, they  had  nearly  all 
returned  to  the  cities, 
and  the  heights  and 
valleys  had  taken  on  a 
touch  of  loneliness,  and 
the  hotels  and  vaca- 
tion cottages  looked 
dismally  empty.  The 
chill  of  autumn  was  in 
the  air,  but  there  had 
been  no  frosts  of  any 
severity.  The  fields 
were  still  noisy  with  the  drone  of  insects,  and  the 
chestnut  burs  were  as  yet  prickly  green  balls  with  no 

240 


Old-fashioned  Churning 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  241 

hint  of  cracking,  though  the  nuts  within  were  mature 
enough  to  be  toothsome  to  the  ever  hungry  small 
boy.  That  the  youngsters  had  begun  to  knock  off 
the  burs  from  the  lower  branches,  and  pound  them 
open  with  stones,  was  plainly  evidenced  by  the  broken 
twigs  and  other  litter  under  the  roadside  trees. 

My  first  long  walk  in  the  Catskills  was  up  a  half-wild 
glen  that  wound  back  among  the  mountains  from  one 
of  the  larger  valleys  for  a  distance  of  five  or  six  miles. 
Snyder  Hollow,  as  this  glen  was  called,  was  hemmed 
narrowly  in  by  wooded  ridges,  and  sometimes  the  trees 
crept  down  and  took  full  possession  of  all  save  the  tiny 
ribbon  of  the  highway.  But  more  commonly  the  road 
was  bordered  by  diminutive  meadow-levels  and  strips 
of  cultivated  hillside,  and  there  would  be  an  occasional 
small  dwelling.  Most  of  the  houses  were  of  weather- 
worn gray  and  had  never  been  painted.  Others,  either 
as  a  result  of  a  streak  of  prosperity  with  which  fortune 
had  favored  their  owners,  or  in  response  to  the  influence 
of  summer  boarders,  had  been  furbished  up  and  en- 
larged. But  however  commendable  their  furbishing 
in  augmenting  the  general  tidiness  and  comfort  of  the 
homes,  those  that  were  unimproved  had  a  picturesque 
charm  their  more  favored  neighbors  could  not  rival. 
One  such  that  attracted  my  attention  particularly  on 
my  way  up  the  glen  was  a  little  red  house  perched  on 
a  slope  high  above  the  road.  In  the  depths  of  the 
ravine  below  was  a  hurrying  trout  stream,  and  this 


242  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

chanced  to  be  spanned  just  there  by  a  bridge.     I  con- 
cluded to  sit  down  on  the  bridge  to  rest  and  see  more 


Digging  Potatoes  in  a  Weedy  Field 

of  the  little  house  up  the  hill.     Across  its  front  ex- 
tended a  rude  piazza  with  a  board  roof.     The  piazza 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  243 

served  as  a  shelter  for  the  family  tubs,  and  on  the 
floor  near  the  tubs  some  tomatoes  were  spread  to 
ripen.  A  woman  in  a  calico  sunbonnet  was  the  only 
person  I  saw  about  the  place.  She  came  out  from 
the  kitchen  door  and  descended  a  steep  path  to  the 
barn,  near  the  stream.  Shortly  afterward,  as  she  was 
returning  with  a  pail  in  either  hand,  a  buckboard 
driven  by  a  young  man  came  along  the  road  and 
stopped. 

"Hello,  Jane!"  the  occupant  of  the  buckboard 
called  out  to  the  woman  with  the 'pails. 

"  Hello,  Bill  !  "  she  responded. 

"  How  are  you  ?  "  he  continued. 

"  First  rate  ;  how's  yourself?  " 

"  Oh,  jus'  so,  so." 

"  Ain't  your  sprained  ankle  gettin'  along  ?  " 

"  It's  better,  but  it's  purty  weak  yit.  Any  word 
from  Johnny  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  had  a  letter  day  'fore  yisterday,  and  he'll 
be  here  by  noon  to-day,  if  I  ain't  mistaken." 

"Well,  you  tell  him  I'm  comin'  round  to  see  him." 
And  the  man  drove  on,  while  the  woman  toiled  up  the 
hill  with  her  two  pails  and  entered  the  kitchen. 

Halfway  between  the  house  and  the  barn  was  a  tall 
butternut  tree  with  a  grindstone,  a  sawhorse,  and  a 
meagre  woodpile  under  it.  The  woman  presently 
paid  a  visit  to  the  woodpile  and  carried  off  an  armful 
of  sticks  for  her  fire. 


244  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

Next  she  came  forth  with  a  basket,  retraced  her  steps 
to  the  tree,  and  picked  up  a  peck  or  so  of  the  butter- 
nuts. These  she  spread  to  dry  on  a  thin  slab  of  stone 
laid  over  the  top  of  a  barrel..  Meanwhile  the  hens  had 
gathered  around  her,  hopeful  of  a  feed,  and  she  shooed 
them  away  with  her  apron. 

Beside  the  stoop  at  the  back  door  was  set  a  water- 
pail  into  which  an  iron  pipe  discharged  a  copious  jet 
of  spring  water.  The  sight  of  this  water  direct  from 
the  unsullied  hills  with  its  suggestion  of  coolness  and 
purity  made  me  thirsty,  and  I  at  length  decided  to  ask 
for  a  drink.  By  the  time  I  had  climbed  the  hill  to  the 
house,  the  woman  had  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  I 
found  her  starting  to  make  butter  in  a  great  upright 
wooden  churn.  She  had  a  poor  opinion  of  butter 
made  in  a  churn  turned  by  a  crank,  and  declared  she 
couldn't  abide  the  taste  of  it.  The  only  right  way  to 
get  the  best  butter  was  to  paddle  the  cream  up  and 
down  in  one  of  these  old-fashioned  barrel  contrivances. 

In  response  to  my  request  for  water  she  got  a 
tumbler  from  the  cupboard  and  accompanied  me  out- 
side to  fill  it.  While  I  drank  she  took  up  her  broom 
and  swept  off  the  threshold,  and  then  stood  gazing  down 
the  valley.  The  outlook  over  the  woodland  glen, 
with  its  flanking  of  green  ridges  and  the  silvery  stream 
twinkling  into  view  here  and  there,  was  very  beautiful, 
and  I  fancied  she  was  admiring  the  scenery.  But  when 
I  ventured  the  opinion  that  she  must  enjoy  having 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills 


a  home  in  such  a  situation,  she  said  that  she  was  so 
used  to  the  scenery  round  about  that  she  never  thought 
whether  it  was 
pretty  or  not, 
and  she  would 
much  rather 
live  in  a  village. 
She  was  watch- 
ing the  road  for 
her  son.  He 
had  been  work- 
ing in  Massa- 
chusetts, but  he 
was  coming 
home  to  stay 
now.  "It's  a  ter- 
rible place  for 
malaria,  Mas- 
sachusetts is," 
she  informed 
me,  "  and  he 
couldn't  stand 
it  there." 

I  went  on  presently  and  continued  as  far  as  "  Lar- 
kin's,"  the  last  house,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  valley. 
The  rhythmic  beat  of  flails  sounded  from  Larkin'sbarn 
and  enticed  me  to  make  a  call.  The  farmer,  a  grizzled, 
elderly  man,  and  his  son  were  threshing  buckwheat  on 


A  Home  on  the  Mountain  Side 


246  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

the  barn  floor.  They  dealt  with  about  a  dozen  of  the 
brown  bundles  at  a  time,  standing  them  on  end  in 
regular  order  three  feet  or  so  apart,  and  giving  the  tops 
of  each  in  turn  a  few  judicious  raps  with  the  flails  that 
set  the  dark  kernels  flying  in  all  directions.  As  soon 
as  a  bundle  that  the  threshers  were  belaboring  toppled 
over,  the  blows  became  more  energetic,  and  it  was  well 
cudgelled  from  end  to  end.  To  do  the  job  thoroughly 
the  bundles  were  turned  and  rethreshed  once  or  twice, 
and  then  the  straw  was  pitched  out  into  the  barn-yard 
to  rot  for  fertilizer.  Every  Catskill  farmer  has  his 
buckwheat  fields,  and  these  he  plans  shall  yield  enough 
to  make  sure  of  a  year's  supply  of  buckwheat  cakes 
and  some  additional  grain  for  spring  cattle  feed. 

Larkin's  cows  were  feeding  in  the  home  lot,  and  from 
time  to  time  he  looked  forth  from  the  barn  door  to  see 
what  they  were  about.  They  showed  an  inclination  to 
visit  the  orchard,  and  when  he  discovered  them  getting 
too  near  the  trees  he  sent  his  dog  to  drive  them  back. 
"  We  ain't  keepin'  only  four  cows  now,"  he  said. 
"  We  did  have  twelve  or  fifteen,  but  my  wife  V  me 
are  gittin'  old,  and  it  was  more'n  she  ought  to  do  takin' 
care  of  the  milk  'n'  makin'  the  butter  from  so  many, 
'n'  I  told  her  we'd  go  into  sheep.  You  c'n  see  part  o' 
my  flock  up  there  on  the  side  o'  the  mountain.  I 
always  intend  to  have  a  bell  on  one  o'  my  sheep,  but 
I  don't  hear  nawthin'  of  it  to-day,  'n'  I  guess  it's  got 
lost  off.  A  bell's  quite  a  help  in  finding  your  sheep, 


Dwellers  among  the   Catskills 


247 


The  Buckwheat  Thresher  —  Fair  Weather  or  Foul  ? 

and,  besides,  it  keeps  'em  together.  They  don't  never 
stray  away  very  far  from  the  bell  sheep,  'n'  if  you  don't 
have  no  bell,  they  git  scattered  and  can't  find  each 
other." 


248  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

Larkin's  farming  was  rather  crude  and  so  was  that 
of  all  the  Snyder  Hollowites.  I  wanted  to  see  some- 
thing that  smacked  less  of  the  wilderness,  and  after  I 
finished  my  wanderings  in  the  glen  I  took  a  train  and 
went  west  into  the  dairy  country  on  the  farther 
Catskill  borders.  The  sun  had  set,  and  it  was  growing 
dark  when  I  alighted  at  a  little  valley  town  and 
looked  about  me  at  the  big  hills  mounding  on  every 
side. 

"  Where  are  the  best  farms  here  ?  "  I  asked  a  young 
fellow  loitering  on  the  station  platform. 

"  Wai,"  he  responded,  "  the  best  farms  around  here 
are  up  at  Shacksville." 

"  How  large  a  place  is  Shacksville,  and  how  do  I 
get  there  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  It  ain't  no  place  at  all,"  was  the  reply.  "  It's  just 
farms.  It's  'bout  three  miles  thar  by  the  road;  but 
you  c'n  cut  off  a  good  deal  by  goin'  cross-lots." 

"  How  about  lodging  ?  " 

"No  trouble  about  that.  Jase  Bascom'll  keep  you. 
Do  you  see  that  signal  light  right  up  the  track  thar  ? 
A  lane  goes  up  the  hill  whar  that  light  is,  and  it  ain't 
more'n  a  mile  'n'  a  half  to  Jase's  by  it." 

"  Could  I  find  my  way  ?  "   I  inquired  doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  yes !  They  drawed  wood  down  thar  last 
winter,  'n'  they  put  chains  on  their  sled  runners  for 
brakes,  'n'  that  tore  up  things  consid'rable,  so't  the 
track's  plain  enough.  It  takes  you  straight  up  to  the 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  249 

hill  road,  and  then  you  turn  to  the  left,  and  Jase's  is 
the  fust  house.  You'll  know  the  house  when  you  git 
to  it  by  its  settin'  up  on  kind  of  a  terrace,  and  havin' 
two  barns  across  the  road." 

Thus  directed,  I  walked  up  the  track  to  the  signal 
light,  crawled  through  a  pair  of  bars,  and  found  a 
rutted,  unfenced  trail  leading  up  a  great  pasture  hillside. 
At  first  it  was  easily  followed,  for  much  of  the  earth 
that  had  been  torn  up  by  the  chain  brakes  had  washed 
away  from  the  steep  incline  and  left  a  waste  of  stones. 
I  toiled  on  for  a  half-hour,  and  reached  the  top  of  the 
rise.  The  darkness  had  been  increasing,  and  when  at 
this  point  the  ruts  and  stones  merged  into  unbroken 
turf,  I  could  not  descry  whither  the  track  led.  A 
faint  new  moon  shining  in  the  hazy  sky  helped  some 
in  revealing  the  lay  of  the  land,  but  everything  was 
strange  to  me,  and  my  bearings  were  a  good  deal  in 
doubt.  Presently  I  came  to  a  patch  of  woodland, 
which,  so  far  as  I  could  discover,  was  perfectly  pathless. 
I  did  not  care  to  stumble  about  at  random  in  its  dense 
shadows,  and  I  kept  along  its  borders  until  it  was 
passed. 

Now  I  began  crossing  open,  stone-walled  fields. 
The  walls  were  a  nuisance.  Their  sturdy  barriers  net- 
worked the  whole  upland,  and  I  was  constantly  brought 
to  a  standstill  by  them  and  had  to  put  my  toes  into 
their  niches  and  scramble  over.  After  a  while  I 
climbed  into  a  broad  cow  lane.  Surely,  that  would 


250  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

take  me  to  some  habitation,  and  I  stepped  along  briskly. 
Yes,  at  the  end  of  the  lane  I  came  to  a  group  of  farm 
buildings  —  a  barn  looming  against  the  sky  close  at 
hand,  and  a  house  and  sheds  among  the  trees  just  down 
the  hill.  But  no  light  shone  from  the  house  windows, 
and  the  weedy  barn-yard  showed  that  the  place  was 
deserted. 

I  searched  about  in  the  gloom  and  found  another 
lane  that  apparently  afforded  egress,  and  I  followed  it 
over  the  gray  hills  for  a  mile.  Then  it  joined  a  high- 
way, and  my  spirits  rose.  Not  far  distant  was  a  house 
on  a  terrace,  and  two  barns  stood  opposite,  across  the 
road.  It  must  be  Jase  Bascom's,  I  thought.  A  dog 
began  barking  warningly  and  came  down  into  the 
roadway  and  confronted  me  ;  but  a  sniff  or  two  seemed 
to  reassure  him,  and  he  ceased  his  clamor.  I  went  up 
the  terrace  steps,  rapped  at  the  door,  and  when  it  was 
opened  asked  for  Mr.  Bascom. 

He  had  gone  to  bed,  I  was  informed ;  but  that  did 
not  prevent  my  arranging  to  stay  for  a  few  days.  No 
one  else  had  retired,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  were  sit- 
ting about  the  kitchen,  except  for  the  hired  man,  who 
was  snoozing  on  the  lounge.  Supper  had  been  eaten 
an  hour  or  two  previously,  and  the  dishes  had  been 
washed  and  replaced  on  the  long  table.  But  now  Mrs. 
Bascom  and  her  two  daughters  hastened  to  remove  the 
blue  fly-netting  that  covered  the  table,  and  clear  a  space 
for  me.  They  granted  my  request  for  a  bowl  of  bread 


SCHOOL 

ANCHUBS. 


A  MORNING  WASH  AT  THE  BACK  DOOR 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  251 

and  milk,  and  added  cookies  and  cake,  and  a  square  of 
delicious  honey  in  the  honeycomb.  I  had  rye  bread, 
as  well  as  wheat,  and  enjoyed  its  moist,  nutty  sweet- 
ness. This  pleased  Mother  Bascom,  who  said,  "Jason 
and  me  always  uses  rye,  but  the  young  folks  think 
they  can't  eat  nothin'  but  wheat." 

By  the  young  folks  she  meant  the  three  grown-up 
children  who  remained  on  the  farm  —  Sarah,  Ollie, 
and  Eb. 

The  kitchen  was  neatly  papered,  and  the  rough, 
warped  floor  was  still  bright  with  its  annual  spring 
coating  of  yellow  paint.  All  around  the  walls  were 
frequent  nails,  from  which  hung  towels,  hats,  coats,  etc. 
A  big  wooden  clock  stood  on  a  shelf  near  the  cellar 
stairway,  and  on  a  longer  shelf  back  of  the  stove  were 
a  row  of  lamps,  a  match-box,  and  a  stout  hand-bell 
used  to  call  the  men  to  their  meals.  Behind  the  stove 
on  the  floor  was  a  wood-box,  close  beside  which,  hang- 
ing on  a  nail,  was  a  home-made  bootjack.  This  was 
the  especial  property  of  Mr.  Bascom,  who  continued 
to  wear  stout  leather  boots  in  winter  and  in  wet  weather. 
But  what  impressed  me  most  in  the  furnishings  of 
the  room  was  its  five  cushioned  rocking-chairs — just 
enough  to  go  around  the  family  and  leave  the  lounge 
for  the  hired  man.  The  father's  chair  was  in  a  warm 
corner  next  the  stove,  and  on  the  window-casing  near 
at  hand  hung  his  favorite  musical  instrument  —  a  jews'- 
harp. 


252  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

The  evening  was  cool,  and  presently  Ollie  went  to 
the  wood-box  to  replenish  the  fire.  "  Don't  put  in  but 
one  stick,"  directed  her  mother.  "  You  know  we  got 
those  apples  drying  in  that  there  back  oven,  and  if 
you  make  it  too  hot,  they'll  cook  instead  o'  dryin'." 

"  We  had  ought  to  have  a  new  stove,"  declared 
Ollie.  "  The  top  o'  this  one  is  all  warped  and 
cracked  with  the  fires  we  make  in  the  winter." 

The  stovepipe  ran  up  through  the  ceiling,  and  I 
learned  later  that  all  the  pipes  in  the  house  were 
arranged  likewise.  The  house  was  built  fifty  years 
ago,  and  in  those  days  when  stoves  had  recently 
superseded  fireplaces  it  was  thought  quite  sufficient 
to  have  the  chimneys  begin  either  in  the  garret  or 
near  the  ceiling  in  the  chambers.  If  it  was  the  latter 
alternative,  a  narrow  cupboard  was  usually  constructed 
beneath. 

"  Can  you  keep  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove  over 
night  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Bascom,  "  but  we  can  in  the 
settin'-room  stove.  We  got  a  big  sheet-iron  stove 
in  there,  and  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  put  in  chunks 
and  shut  the  dampers  tight." 

"  I  must  git  me  a  half  pound  o'  powder  next  time 
I'm  down  to  the  village,"  remarked  Eb  after  a  pause. 
"  I  might  want  to  go  huntin'  some  lowery  day." 

"  What  do  you  hunt  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  Oh,  mostly  squirrels  and  pa'tridges  just  now.     A 


Dwellers  among  the   Catskills  253 

little  later  we'll  be  on  the  lookout  for  foxes.  We  got 
a  good  hound  to  trail  'em.  and  last  winter  we  shot 

D  ' 

seven.  Their  skins  was  worth  a  dollar  'n'  a  half  to  two 
dollars.  Coons  is  good  game,  too.  We  git  as  many 
as  eighteen  or  twenty  some  years,  and  then  ag'in  not 
more'n  three  or  four.  They  fetch  about  a  dollar. 
I  s'pose  we  make  more  money  out  o'  skunks  as  a  rule 
than  anything  else.  One  year  me  'n'  another  feller 
got  seventy-eight.  Part  of  'em  we  trapped,  but  the 
most  we  got  by  diggin'.  Every  thaw  in  the  winter 
they'd  come  out,  and  we'd  track  'em  to  their  holes. 
The  snow  was  deep,  and  not  much  frost  in  the 
ground,  and  it  wa'n't  as  hard  diggin'  as  you  might 
think.  There  was  one  hole  we  found  twelve  in. 
You  know  they  don't  make  their  own  holes,  but  use 
those  the  woodchucks  have  dug.  Sometimes  we'd 
find  woodchucks  in  the  same  hole  with  the  skunks. 
They  wouldn't  live  right  alongside  o'  the  skunks, 
though,  but  in  a  branch  passage.  Skunk  skins 
fetched  from  thirty-five  cents  to  a  dollar  'n'  a  quarter 
that  year,  'n'  we  averaged  sixty  or  seventy  cents,  I'll 
warrant  ye. 

"  Wai,"  said  Eb,  with  a  yawn  at  the  conclusion  of 
these  particulars,  "  I  guess  it's  bedtime.  We  don't 
stay  up  very  late  here,  for  father's  callin'  us  to  git  up 
about  the  middle  o'  the  night." 

By  the  time  I  was  out  the  next  morning  Mrs. 
Bascom  and  Ollie  were  coming  in  from  milking. 


254  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

Their  outer  skirts  were  tucked  up,  and  they  wore  big 
aprons  and  sunbonnets.  These  two  never  failed  to 
help  the  men  milk,  but  the  other  daughter  stayed 
indoors  getting  the  breakfast.  Practically  all  the 
women  in  the  region  milked,  though  the  young  girls 
were  beginning  to  question  its  being  one  of  their 
duties.  For  instance,  at  the  next  house  up  the  road 
was  a  maiden  who  had  "  learnt  to  play  on  the  pianner, 
and  she  won't  go  near  the  barn  any  more." 

The  Bascoms  had  about  four  hundred  acres,  one- 
third  of  it  cultivated,  and  the  rest  pasturage  and 
woodland.  They  kept  a  sleek  herd  of  Jerseys,  num- 
bering not  far  from  fifty,  and  sold  the  milk  to  a 
creamery.  The  women  before  they  returned  to  the 
house  had  assisted  in  unloosing  the  cows  from  their 
stanchions,  and  then  Mr.  Bascom,  staff  in  hand,  con- 
ducted the  herd  to  "  pastur'."  He  did  all  the  driving 
by  shouting.  The  cows  strung  along  the  road  for  a 
long  distance,  but  they  understood  the  farmer's  voice, 
and  he  had  no  trouble  in  making  them  turn  in  at 
the  proper  barway. 

When  he  came  back,  he  and  Kb  and  the  hired  man 
gathered  at  a  long  wooden  trough  of  flowing  water 
just  outside  the  back  door  and  washed  their  hands 
and  faces. 

"  We  don't  keep  it  as  tidy  as  we  might  out  back 
thar,"  said  Mr.  Bascom,  apologetically,  to  me  as  the 
family  were  sitting  down  at  the  breakfast  table;  "  but 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  THE  BARN-  TO  HELP  MILK 


Dwellers  among  the   Catskills  255 

we  ain't  got  time  to  tend  to  things  the  way  they  do 
round  city  houses." 

"Aunt  Jessie  ought  to  be  here,"  remarked  Sarah, 
and  they  all  laughed. 

"  She's  a  town  woman,  Aunt  Jessie  is,"  explained 
Mrs.  Bascom,  "  and  she's  bound  to  have  everythin' 
just  so.  Well,  she  was  stayin'  here  last  summer,  and 
one  day  she  took  the  butcher  knife  and  went  out  and 
cut  all  the  weeds  growin'  round  the  back  door.  Then 
she  come  in  complainin'  how  dretfully  her  back  ached. 
But  nobody  didn't  ask  her  to  cut  the  weeds.  She 
might  'a'  let  'em  alone.  They  wa'n't  hurtin'  nothin'." 

After  we  had  eaten  breakfast  Eb  hitched  a  pair  of 
horses  into  the  market  wagon  and  drove  down  to  the 
village  creamery  three  miles  distant  with  the  great  cans 
of  milk.  This  was  a  daily  task  of  his  the  year  through. 
Mr.  Bascom  before  going  out  to  work  sat  down  in  his 
rocking-chair  and  smoked  a  pipe  of  tobacco.  "  Eb's 
got  to  git  his  off  horse  shod,"  said  he,  "  and  he  won't 
be  home  afore  noon,  I  bet  four  cents."  Apparently  the 
others  concurred  in  his  opinion,  for  no  one  accepted  this 
wager. 

Meanwhile,  the  hired  man  had  shouldered  a  great, 
long-toothed  reaper  known  as  a  "  cradle,"  and  gone 
off  to  cut  a  late  field  of  buckwheat,  and  the  women 
were  hustling  around  doing  the  housework.  Ollie 
got  ready  some  mince-meat,  Sarah  started  to  make 
potato  yeast  with  the  intention  that  evening  of 


256  New   England  and  its   Neighbors 

"  sponging  up  some  bread  over  night,"  and  there 
was  other  baking  and  stewing  going  forward.  Most 
of  the  summer  housework  was  done  in  a  rear  ell  of  the 
dwelling,  that  until  a  few  years  ago  was  chiefly  used  as 
a  dairy.  In  a  corner  of  the  main  room  had  stood  the 
big  barrel  churn,  and  the  floor  was  deeply  worn  where 
the  churn  had  been  canted  on  edge,  and  rolled  into 
position,  and  out  again.  From  a  shed  adjoining,  a 
wooden  arm  was  still  thrust  through  the  wall  ready  to 
be  attached  to  the  paddle  handle,  and  in  the  shed  were 
wheels  and  cogs,  and  a  revolving,  slanting  platform,  on 
which  two  dogs  used  to  be  tied  to  walk  up  the  incline 
until  the  churning  was  finished.  Excepting  Sunday,  the 
cream  was  churned  every  day  in  the  week.  The  butter 
was  packed  away  in  tubs  that  were  stored  on  the  cool 
floor  of  a  cellarlike  apartment  running  back  into  the 
bank  at  the  far  end  of  the  dairy. 

Neighboring  the  ell  were  a  number  of  rude  little  shan- 
ties—  a  hog-pen,  corn-house,  hen-house,  and  smoke- 
house. The  last  was  only  four  or  five  feet  square,  and 
seemed  to  be  a  storage-place  for  rubbish  as  I  saw  it,  but 
it  was  cleared  out  whenever  ham,  bacon,  or  beef  was  to 
be  smoked.  Against  one  side  of  it,  two  flour  barrels 
were  set  up  on  slabs  of  stone.  They  had  been  freshly 
filled  with  ashes,  and  Mother  Bascom  was  preparing 
to  make  soft  soap.  Near  by  was  an  enormous  iron 
kettle  half  full  of  water  with  a  fire  burning  under  it. 

"  Most  folks  leech  their  ashes  the  day  aforehand," 


MAKING  SOFT  SOAP 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  257 

Mrs.  Bascom  informed  me,  "and  that's  what  you  have 
to  do  if  you  use  cold  water,  but  I  heat  the  water  and  let 
it  run  through  the  ash  barrels  in  the  forenoon.  Right 
after  dinner  I  put  my  grease  and  scraps  into  the  kittle 
and  pour  in  the  lye,  and  by  three  o'clock  I've  got  a 
barrel  or  more  of  soap  made  and  am  ready  to  go  into 
the  house.  I  leave  the  soap  in  the  kittle  till  the  next 
day.  It  bursts  the  barrel  if  it's  put  in  afore  it's  cool. 
We  store  it  down  cellar.  'Twould  be  some  handier  to 
keep  it  upstairs,  but  'twould  freeze  sometimes  in  winter 
and  dry  up  in  summer." 

"This  kettle  looks  like  a  very  old  one,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"We've  had  it  ever  sin' I  c'n  remember,"  responded 
Mrs.  Bascom.  "  It's  an  old  residenter.  We  use  it 
mostly  to  boil  swill  in,  but  it  comes  handy  in  a  good 
many  ways.  Years  ago  we  boiled  down  sap  in  it ;  but 
smoke  and  ashes  and  everything  would  get  into  the 
sap  while  'twas  boilin'  and  the  sugar  would  be  black  as 
the  kittle.  It  tasted  all  right,  though." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  early  in  the  fall  to  make  soap  ?  " 
said  I. 

"  Yes,  it  is,  and  I've  got  plenty  left  from  my  spring 
makin';  but  I  was  afraid  it  might  be  cold  weather  by 
the  next  new  moon." 

"  Does  the  moon  affect  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes;  if  you  make  it  in  the  old  of  the  moon, 
you've  got  to  boil  and  boil.  Seems  as  though  you'd 


258  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

never  git  through.  They  say  the  best  time  to  make  is 
the  full  moon  in  May,  but  I  ain't  particular  about  the 
month  myself." 

Another  thing  which  Mrs.  Bascom  declared  must  be 
done  with  proper  regard  for  the  moon  was  hog-killing. 
"  Kill  a  hog  in  the  old  of  the  moon,  and  it  all  goes  to 
grease,"  she  said.  "  The  meat  fries  up  and  there  ain't 
much  left.  I've  heard  sayings,  too,  about  planting  in 
the  new  of  the  moon,  but  the  only  thing  we're  careful 
about  puttin'  in  then  is  cucumbers." 

From  all  that  I  heard  in  the  Catskills  I  was  im- 
pressed that  old  sayings  were  still  accepted  there  among 
the  farm  folk  with  childlike  faith.  Another  manifes- 
tation of  their  power  in  Mother  Bascom's  case  had  to 
do  with  a  thrifty  specimen  of  that  odd  plant  known  as 
hens-and-chickens,  which  she  had  growing  in  a  pail  be- 
side the  front  door.  She  said  she  picked  off  the  buds 
as  fast  as  they  formed,  because  if  they  were  to  blossom 
and  go  to  seed  there  would  be  a  death  in  the  family. 

The  prevalence  of  rustic  superstition  was  again 
emphasized  when  the  hired  man  mentioned  that  the 
beech  trees  were  unusually  well  loaded  with  nuts  and 
quoted  "they  say  "  as  an  authority  for  this  being  pro- 
phetic of  a  hard  winter. 

"  Do  you  think  that  is  so  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Wai,  I  believe  thar  is  a  little  into  it,"    he  replied. 

We  were  on  the  borders  of  the  buckwheat  field, 
and  he  was  just  preparing  to  return  to  the  house  for 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  259 

dinner.  Below  us  in  the  hollow  was  an  old  farm-house 
and  a  number  of  ruinous  sheds.  I  asked  about  their 
owner. 

"Jim  Gamp  lives  thar,"  said  my  companion,  "but 
he  rents  the  place  from  Andrew  Fuller.  Andrew 
Fuller  is  the  big  gun  of  this  town  and  has  got  farms 
and  mortgages  all  around.  He's  rather  of  an  old  hog, 
though,  and  when  he  gits  a  chance  to  skin  a  man  he 
does  it.  Jim's  been  wantin'  him  to  fix  up  the  build- 
ings, but  the  old  whelp  won't  do  a  thing.  Jim's  had 
to  patch  the  barn  roof  with  boards,  but  it  leaks  in  spite 
of  him.  The  barn's  too  small,  anyway.  There  ain't 
room  in  it  for  his  crops,  and  he  has  to  stack  a  good 
share  of  his  hay  outdoors.  I  expect,  though,  he's 
kind  o'  shiftless,  or  he'd  git  along  better.  Do  you  see 
those  oats  just  beyond  the  house?  He  got  'em  into 
bundles  and  left  'em  in  the  field.  I'll  bet  ye  they've 
stood  there  two  months.  They  ain't  good  for  much 
now  —  oats  or  straw,  either." 

I  spoke  of  the  numerous  lines  of  stone  wall  that 
crisscrossed  Jim  Gamp's  land,  and  the  hired  man  said 
that  he  had  calculated  there  were  miles  of  walls  on 
every  fair-sized  -farm  in  the  neighborhood,  and  if  the 
labor  of  building  these  walls  was  estimated  at  a  reason- 
able  rate  it  would  often  exceed  what  the  entire  farms 
would  sell  for  to-day. 

"  I  notice  you  have  a  good  deal  of  hawkweed  in  thk 
buckwheat,"  I  said  as  we  started  homeward. 


260  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


"  Yes,  it's  gettin'  in  everywhar  through  the  fields 
and  pastur's.  Its  leaves  spread  out  flat  and  cover  the 
ground,  so  't  where  it  grows  the  grass  is  all  killed 
out.  It's  the  worst  darn  stuff  you  ever  see  in  haying. 

There's  a  little 
fuzz  or  some- 
thing about  it 
that's  enough 
to  make  you 
cough  yourself 
to  death." 

We  had  left 
the  buckwheat 
field  now  and 
passed  through 


a  gap  in  the 
fence  and  were 
on  the  highway. 
"  Doesn't  the 
snow  drift  on 
these  roads  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  It  would  if 
the  farmers 
didn't  cut  the 
brush  along  the  sides.  They're  obliged  to  do  that  by 
law,  and  usually  they  cut  it  in  the  summer  after  hay- 
ing, and  it  lies  then  till  spring,  when  they  burn  it; 


Binding  Indian  Corn 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills  261 

but  we  hain't  given  this  road  along  here  no  attention 
so  far  this  year." 

It  was  not  much  travelled,  and  occasional  strips  of 
grass  grew  between  the  wheel  tracks,  while  on  either 
hand  the  briers,  weeds,  and  bushes  ran  riot  —  rasp- 
berries and  blackberries,  milkweeds  hung  full  of  pods, 
jungles  of  tansy,  elecampane,  life-everlasting,  Jacob's- 
ladder,  fireweed,  etc.  In  a  ravine  where  we  crossed  a 
brook,  were  several  clumps  of  skunk-cabbage  which 
the  hired  man  said  had  spread  from  Bill  Hastings's 
meadow,  up  above. 

"  Thar  never  none  growed  around  here,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  until  Bill  fetched  some  of  it  or  had  it  sent 
from  his  relatives  in  New  Jersey.  He  set  it  out  thar 
by  the  rear  of  his  house  and  he  uses  the  root  for  a  medi- 
cine he  takes.  He  offered  to  fix  me  some  when  I  was 
feelin'  a  little  oft*  the  hooks  a  while  ago,  and  I  told  him 
if  it  was  a  question  between  dyin'  an'  skunk-cabbage  I 
was  ready  to  take  the  stuff";  but  bein'  as  I  wa'n't  that 
bad  off"  yet  I  wouldn't  trouble  him.  Bill's  the  greatest 
feller  for  swallerin'  medicines  ever  I  knowed — makes 
'em  himself  out  of  weeds  and  things.  He  was  stewin' 
up  some  leaves  o'  this  here  elecampane  t'other  day 
when  I  was  to  his  house.  Coin'  to  try  it  for  his  liver, 
I  believe.  It  must  be  pretty  bitter,  for  I  never  saw 
nawthin'  would  eat  elecampane  leaves  till  the  grasshop- 
pers was  so  blame  thick  this  summer.  They  trimmed 
it  up  some.  They  e't  tansy,  too  —  e't  it  bare  to  the 


262  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

stalks.  We're  always  havin'  some  pest  nowadays. 
Have  you  noticed  how  many  dead  trees  there  are 
scattered  through  the  woods  ?  They'll  give  ye  an  idee 
o'  what  the  forest  worms  done  here  last  year.  They 
stripped  the  woods  so't  there  wa'n't  hardly  a  leaf  left." 

Just  then  the  hired  man  stopped  and  pointed  to  a 
slender  sapling  growing  out  of  the  roadside  wall.  It 
was  loaded  with  tiny  scarlet  fruit.  "  I'm  goin'  to 
have  a  few  o'  them  thar  pin-cherries,"  said  he,  and  he 
pushed  through  an  intervening  clump  of  sumachs  and 
pulled  off  a  handful.  "  That's  robbin'  the  pa'tridges 
o'  their  winter  provender,"  he  remarked  as  he  shared 
his  spoils  with  me,  "  but  I  guess  they'll  stan'  it."  And 
we  plodded  on,  nibbling  at  the  sour  little  globules 
until  we  reached  the  house. 

Such  walks  as  this  along  the  upland  roadways  were 
a  constant  pleasure  during  my  stay  at  the  Bascoms'. 
There  was  only  one  thing  I  enjoyed  better,  and  that 
was  to  sit  in  the  lee  of  a  stone  wall  in  lazy  contempla- 
tion of  the  landscape.  We  were  having  genuine  au- 
tumn weather  —  chill  air  and  a  blustering  wind,  sailing 
clouds  and  bursts  of  sunshine.  Tinges  of  red  and 
gold  were  beginning  to  appear  in  the  trees,  and  nearly 
everything  in  the  plant  world  had  gone  to  seed.  Yet 
the  fields  were  still  alive  with  strident  insects,  the  flies 
and  bees  buzzed  cheerfully,  and  in  the  quiet  of  my 
loitering  places  I  was  sure  to  be  visited  by  certain  in- 
vestigating ants  and  spiders.  The  country  I  over- 


Dwellers  among  the  Catskills 


263 


looked  was  one  to  fall  in  love  with — great  rounded 
hills,  their  summits  wooded,  and  their  slopes  and  the 
valleys  laid  off  endlessly  in  green  fields  and  pastures. 
How  beautiful  it  all  was,  and  how  grateful  the  shelter 
of  those  brown,  lichened  walls  ! 


Considerint 


XII 


A    CANAL-BOAT    VOYAGE    ON    THE    HUDSON 

EVER  since  I 
have  known 
the  Hudson  as 
a  real  live  river  and 
not  simply  as  a  crooked 
streak  on  the  map,  I 
have  had  the  wish  to 
gain  a  closer  acquaint- 
ance with  the  life  on 
the  canal-boats,  whose 
long,  lazy  tows  are  one 
of  the  stream's  notable 
features.  Each  even- 
ing, in  the  warm- 
weather  months,  a  tow 
Trading  with  a  Bumboat  of  these  deep  -  laden 

craft  just  out  from  the  Erie  Canal  leaves  Albany  for 
New  York. 

They  always  make  the  trip  back  and  forth  in  the 
wake  of  a  steam  vessel.     One  might  fancy  they  would 

264 


A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the   Hudson       265 

journey  southward  drifting  with  the  current,  but  the 
river  is  too  slow  even  for  canal-boats,  its  progress 
seaward  being  barely  eight  miles  a  day.  As  you  watch 
the  tows  from  the  shores  you  see  people  on  the  boats, 
you  see  little  cabins  at  the  sterns  with  stovepipes  stick- 
ing out  of  the  roofs,  and  you  see  many  lines  of  washing 
flying.  The  tows,  indeed,  are  floating  villages,  and 
there  is  a  touch  of  romance  about  them  that  stirs  the 
onlooker's  gypsy  blood  r.t  once. 

With  me,  at  any  rate,  the  impulse  to  make  a  voyage 
on  a  tow  was  very  strong.  Here  was  the  chance  to 
see  a  novel  phase  of  life,  and  that  amid  the  famous 
scenery  of  the  Hudson.  If  the  canal-boat  folk  would 
take  me,  I  would  make  one  trip  down  the  river,  at 
least. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  was  in  Albany 
wandering  along  the  wharves.  The  day  was  dull,  and, 
to  a  stranger,  the  high,  rusty  warehouses  and  breweries 
flanking  the  river  were  depressing.  A  number  of  canal- 
boats  were  moored  along  shore,  some  low  and  snug, 
some  loaded  high  with  an  unwieldy  bulk  of  lumber 
or  hay.1  There  was  not  much  going  on  aboard  them. 
Two  or  three  men  were  doing  odd  jobs  about  the 
decks,  and  a  woman  in  a  pink  waist  was  standing  at  a 
cabin  door  and  looking  out  on  the  river.  The  only 
attention  I  got  was  from  a  lad  dozing  on  a  cabin  roof, 
who,  at  sight  of  my  valise,  roused  up  and  asked  what 
I  was  peddling.  Things  were  equally  quiet  on  the 


266  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

wharves.  A  few  boys  and  men  were  loitering  about, 
but  there  was  no  stir,  no  activity,  not  even  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  frequent  corner  saloons. 

I  was  half  wishing  to  give  up  the  trip,  when  three 
canal-boats  arrived  from  up  the  river,  and  the  tug  in 
charge  pushed  them  in  to  the  wharf  near  where  I 
stood.  I  spoke  to  a  man  who  jumped  on  shore  with 
a  rope,  and  he  pointed  out  one  of  the  rough,  sun- 
burned working-men  on  the  boats  and  said  that  was  the 
"  captain  "  —  he  was  the  man  who  owned  the  three 
boats,  and  if  I  wanted  to  go  to  New  York  he  was  the 
one  to  talk  with. 

The  captain,  who  in  dress  and  looks  was  no  differ- 
ent from  his  fellows,  proved  friendly,  and  was  perfectly 
willing  I  should  go  down  the  Hudson  on  his  vessels. 
I  offered  to  pay  my  fare,  but  he  said  "  No  "  emphati- 
cally, and  added  :  "  I  don't  want  any  money.  It's  no 
trouble.  Most  of  my  crew  left  when  we  got  to  the 
end  of  the  canal,  and  there's  room  enough.  But  you'll 
have  to  take  things  as  they  are.  I  can't  answer  for 
what  your  bed'll  be.  Like  enough  it  isn't  fit  for  you, 
and  then  again  it  may  be  all  right.  It's  just  as  the  men 
left  it,  and  they're  sometimes  pretty  dirty  fellows." 

But  I  could  go.  That  was  a  relief,  for  the  uncer- 
tainty of  ways  and  means  when  one  is  starting  out  on 
such  an  expedition  always  keeps  one's  spirits  at  a  low 
ebb.  I  did  not  worry  much  over  possible  hardships. 

"  I    don't    know    how    you'll    manage    about    your 


THE  CALL  TO  DINNER 


A   Canal-boat  Voyage  on   the   Hudson        267 

meals,"  the  captain  continued.  "  Usually  I  have  my 
wife  and  children  along,  but  this  time  I've  got  a  house- 
keeper. My  wife  took  sick  last  month  and  she  stayed 
at  home  this  trip ;  so  I  had  to  get  Mrs.  Libbey  to 
cook  and  tend  to  the  other  work,  and  I  don't  know 
how  she'll  feel  about  taking  a  boarder.  Perhaps  she'll 
think  she  has  enough  to  do  now.  You'll  have  to  fix 
that  with  her.  The  best  way  is  to  speak  to  her  your- 
self when  you  find  her  out  on  deck.  If  she  don't 
want  the  job,  why,  you  can  get  all  you  want  to  eat 
to-morrow  from  the  bumboats." 

With  this  the  captain  turned  to  his  work.  I  did  not 
want  to  run  the  risk  of  going  hungry  till  to-morrow 
and  leave  the  chance  of  getting  something  then  to  the 
"  bumboats,"  whatever  those  might  be.  So  I  went  on 
shore  and  visited  a  meagre  little  grocery  not  far  away, 
where  I  bought  a  supply  of  cookies  and  a  can  of  salmon. 
With  these  I  thought  I  could  hold  body  and  soul 
together  the  entire  trip  if  necessary. 

The  weather  was  threatening,  and  evening  came 
early.  Lanterns  were  lit  on  the  boats,  and  lights 
twinkled  out  one  by  one  all  about  the  river  and  along 
the  shores.  Presently  a  horn  blew,  and  the  cap- 
tain and  the  two  men,  Duncan  and  Hugh,  who 
made  up  the  river  crew,  strolled  down  into  Mrs.  Lib- 
bey's  cabin  on  the  best  boat  to  have  supper.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  going  after  my  can  of  salmon  and  bag  of 
cookies  when  the  captain  reappeared  and  invited  me  to 


268  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

come  in  and  eat  with  the  others.  He  said  he  had  fixed 
things  with  Mrs.  Libbey,  and  I  could  pay  her  for 
my  board  whatever  I  saw  fit  when  we  reached  New 
York. 

This  made  me  one  of  the  family,  and  I  followed  the 
captain's  lead  and  crooked  myself  down  into  the  cabin. 
The  ceiling  barely  missed  one's  head,  the  walls  were 
honeycombed  with  cupboards  and  drawers,  and  there 
was  a  folding  bed  in  one  corner  and  a  cook-stove  in 
another.  The  floor  was  covered  with  oil-cloth,  and  the 
whole  place  was  neat  and  orderly.  The  table  filled 
the  middle  of  the  room.  Most  of  the  chairs  were 
nothing  but  backless  camp-stools  that  could  be  closed 
up  and  tucked  away  when  not  in  use.  The  table  was 
not  so  large  but  that  everything  on  it  could  be  reached 
without  much  stretching,  and  I  was  invited  to  draw  up 
and  help  myself.  We  had  beans,  meat,  potato,  bread 
and  butter,  crackers,  and  tea  ;  and  the  fare  right  through 
the  voyage  was  plain  and  coarse,  but  not  unwholesome. 
The  canal-boat  people  were  inclined  to  neglect  their 
forks  as  conveyances  for  food,  and  each  reached  his 
own  knife  to  the  butter-plate  from  time  to  time.  How- 
ever, these  customs  are  not  peculiar  to  canal-boats.  We 
four  men  left  little  spare  room  at  the  table,  and  Mrs. 
Libbey  sat  back  near  the  stove  and  chatted,  and  saw 
that  our  cups  were  kept  filled  with  tea. 

By  the  time  I  returned  to  the  deck  preparations  were 
being  made  to  start.  Dusky  figures  were  moving 


A   Canal-boat  Voyage   on   the   Hudson        269 

about  on  the  boats  and  on  the  wharves,  conspicuous 
among  them  a  short,  slouch-hatted  man  who,  with  much 
swearing  and  violence  of  manner,  was  making  up  the 
tow.  There  were  many  lights  on  the  river  —  yellow, 
red,  and  green.  Tugs  were  moving  hither  and  yon, 
whistling  and  puffing,  and  in  the  hazy  air  of  the  half- 
clouded  evening  the  scene  seemed  full  of  mystery  and 
strange  noises. 

At  eight  a  great  steamer  just  starting  for  New  York 
left  its  pier  a  quarter  of  a  mile  above,  and  its  mountain 
of  lights  drifted  down  past  us.  Except  for  the  tall 
smoke-stacks  towering  above  the  pile,  its  size  and  its 
wealth  of  glow  and  glitter  made  it  seem,  as  seen  from 
the  humble  canal-boats,  a  veritable  "  floating  palace." 
On  an  upper  deck  was  a  search-light  peering  about 
with  its  one  eye,  flashing  its  bit  of  vivid  illumination 
now  on  this  side  the  river,  now  on  the  other,  bringing 
out  the  color  and  form  of  all  it  touched  with  astonishing 
clearness  amid  the  surrounding  night.  As  soon  as  the 
steamer  reached  the  open  river  its  engines  began  to 
pant,  and  it  soon  vanished  on  its  swift  course  south- 
ward. 

Shortly  afterward  the  shore-lines  of  our  tow  of  canal- 
boats  were  cast  loose,  and  we  too  were  on  our  way  down 
the  river.  But  ours  was  not  the  easy  flight  of  the 
brilliant  passenger-boat  that  preceded  us.  Our  long, 
clumsy  tow  was  being  dragged  through  the  gray  even- 
ing gloom  by  a  single  stout  steamer,  and  the  blunt, 


270  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

deep-laden  canal-boats  ploughed  their  way  through  the 
dun  waters  very  heavily.  In  our  rear  the  sparkle  of 
the  city  lights  slowly  faded,  and  the  glows  in  home 
windows  on  the  wooded  shores  grew  fewer  and  farther 
between. 

Our  tow  included  between  thirty  and  forty  boats, 
made  up  in  tiers  of  four  abreast.  The  boats  in  each 
tier  were  snug  together,  and  though  they  sometimes 
swung  apart  a  foot  or  two,  there  was  never  much  diffi- 
culty in  stepping  from  one  to  the  other.  The  captain 
I  had  adopted  owned  three  of  the  boats  in  our  tier,  and 
the  odd  one  was  in  charge  of  an  elderly  Frenchman, 
his  wife,  two  dogs,  and  a  cat. 

Responsibility  was  now  past  for  the  night,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  everybody  turned  in.  I  had  a  bunk 
in  a  little  cabin  at  the  rear  of  the  middle  one  of  our 
three  boats.  This  cabin  was  a  kind  of  store-room  —  a 
catch-all  for  every  sort  of  rubbish.  Here  were  pieces 
of  harness,  cast-off  clothing,  rags,  tools,  bolts,  kerosene 
cans,  a  tub  of  paint,  etc.  It  had  various  odors,  and 
these  were  not  improved  when  Duncan,  my  fellow- 
roomer,  lit  a  stout  tin  lamp  and  turned  it  low  to  burn 
all  night.  The  apartment  was  mostly  below  decks, 
and  as  for  ventilation,  one  could  about  as  well  have  slept 
in  a  dry-goods  box  with  the  cover  on. 

My  bunk  looked  short,  but  there  proved  to  be  a 
recess  in  the  farther  wall  where  I  could  stow  away  my 
feet.  It  was  a  bed  without  linen,  and  the  coarse 


A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the  Hudson        271 

blankets  and  bed-ticking  pillow  looked  so  uninviting 
that  I  concluded  to  sleep  on  top  in  the  clothes  I  had 
on.  A  calico  curtain  was  strung  on  a  wire  along  the 
front  of  the  bunk.  This  I  drew,  and,  with  the  dim 
light  of  the  lamp  shining  through  it,  and  with  the 
swash  of  the  water  around  the  stern  of  the  boat  sound- 
ing in  my  ears,  I  went  to  sleep.  On  the  whole,  things 
were  very  quiet,  and,  though  the  boat  rolled  a  little  and 
now  and  then  softly  bumped  against  its  neighbor,  the 
motion  was  so  slight  and  we  slipped  along  so  smoothly 
that  it  was  hardly  different  from  being  on  land. 

When  I  clambered  out  on  deck  a  little  before  six  the 
next  day,  the  weather  was  still  dubious,  and  during  the 
morning  we  had  frequent  scuds  of  rain.  Toward  noon 
a  thunder-storm  came  rumbling  down  on  us  from  the 
Catskills,  but  soon  the  sky  showed  signs  of  clearing,  and 
the  head  wind  which  had  been  tossing  the  waves  into 
whitecaps  grew  quieter. 

Right  after  breakfast  Mrs.  Libbey  had  taken  every- 
thing out  of  her  cabin  that  could  be  taken  out,  set  up 
her  wash-tub,  and  gone  to  washing.  I  suppose  every 
other  woman  on  the  tow  did  likewise.  The  first  day 
on  the  Hudson  is  always  washing  day,  for  on  the  sec- 
ond day  the  boats  are  in  salt  water,  which  sets  back  a 
hundred  miles  up  the  river.  In  the  brighter  spells 
between  showers,  clothes-lines  had  been  hoisted  on  the 
decks  and  a  few  garments  swung  on  them  ;  but  with 
the  first  streak  ot  sunshine  after  the  thunder-storm, 


272  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


Visiting 

tubs  were  brought  up  to  the  open  air,  the  clothes-lines 
filled,  and  surplus  garments  were  spread  all  about. 
The  boats  with  this  abounding  bunting  had  quite  a  gala 
air. 

The  men  began  the  day  by  feeding  and  caring  for 
the  horses  in  the  low  stable-cabins  at  the  bow  of  the 
boats.  The  trip  back  and  forth  on  the  Hudson  and 
the  stay  in  New  York  are  the  horses'  vacation,  and  in 
spite  of  the  narrowness  of  their  quarters,  they  seemed 
contented  enough  ;  yet  it  moved  one's  pity  to  see  their 
galled  shoulders  and  to  see  them  cringe  and  plunge 
when  the  men  touched  their  sores  to  wash  them  or  rub 
on  oil.  Our  captain  had  seven  horses.  On  the  canal 
they  worked  in  two  relays,  three  horses  in  one  and  four 
in  the  other.  The  boats  kept  going  night  and  day, 
and  it  was  steady  work  for  the  horses  —  six  hours  on 
and  six  hours  off  for  all  the  week  and  a  half  it  took 
to  go  through  the  canal.  "  Their  shoulders  get  very 
tender,"  said  Duncan.  "  Some  of  the  horses,  after  they 


A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the   Hudson       273 

have  had  their  rest  and  start  in  to  work  again,  will  rear 
and  kick,  and  it's  all  you  can  do  to  make  'em  buckle 
down  to  pull  —  they're  just  that  mean  in  disposition. 
Still,  you  can't  blame  'em.  They're  just  like  folks, 
and  a  man  with  a  sore  toe  would  act  worse'n  they  do. 
You  see,  their  collars  are  bearing  on  their  shoulders 
all  the  time  for  six  hours,  and  the  charing  makes  so 
much  heat  that,  with  the  sweat,  it  scalds  them.  If  they 
could  only  stop  once  in  a  while  and  have  the  collars 
lifted  up,  so's  to  let  the  air  under,  they'd  be  all  right." 

The  canal-boat  horses  undoubtedly  have  a  hard 
time,  and  it  is  the  destiny  of  very  many  of  them 
to  be  drowned  by  being  dragged  into  the  water  by  a 
fouled  tow-line.  When  boats  are  passing  each  other, 
and  the  line  gets  caught,  unless  it  is  unsnapped  at  once, 
in  go  the  horses.  Sometimes  the  owner  will  leap  into 
the  water  to  try  to  cut  them  loose,  but  it  is  dangerous 
business. 

After  the  men  finished  caring  tor  the  horses,  they 
turned  their  attention  to  cleaning  the  decks,  which 
they  said  had  got  "  grimmy  with  dirt  and  soot."  They 
dipped  up  great  quantities  of  water  and  dashed  it  all 
about  the  premises,  and  then  scoured  off  everything 
with  their  brooms.  This  is  a  before-breakfast  task  of 
daily  recurrence.  The  plentifulness  of  the  water  sup- 
ply seems  to  give  the  canal-boat  folk  the  same  mania 
for  scrubbing  that  the  Dutch  have  in  Holland.  They 
used  it  copiously  for  everything.  When  a  man  washed 


274  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

his  face  he  dipped  up  a  brimming  pail  for  the  purpose; 
and  I  suppose  he  would  have  used  another  pailful  to 


Drawing  Water 

brush    his   teeth   in,  only   that  is  an    attention   to  the 
toilet  usually  dispensed  with  on  the  canal  craft. 


A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the   Hudson      275 

The  general  work  of  the  day  consisted  in  doing  odd 
jobs  of  tinkering,  putting  things  in  order,  pumping  the 
water  out  of  boats  that  leaked,  mending  harness,  etc. 

1  O  ' 

But  there  was  plenty  of  leisure,  and  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  lounging  and  visiting.  Hugh  and  Duncan 
found  time  to  attend  to  various  affairs  of  their  own, 
and  to  read  several  chapters  in  some  ragged  paper 
novels.  Hugh,  just  before  he  settled  down  to  reading, 
invited  me  to  call  on  him.  He  had  slicked  up  the 
cabin  where  he  slept  and  given  its  atmosphere  an  indi- 
viduality of  its  own  by  fumigating  it  with  sulphur  for 
the  benefit  of  the  cockroaches.  Besides,  he  had 
scoured  or  mopped  it  out  after  some  fashion,  and  it 
was  so  damp  and  chilly  that  he  now  concluded  he 
would  start  a  fire.  He  had  tried  to  improve  the 
appearance  of  his  rust-coated  stove  by  going  over  it 
with  kerosene,  and  when  he  kindled  the  fire  its  oil- 
soaked  surface  began  to  smoke.  In  the  depressions 
of  the  covers  intended  for  the  insertion  of  the  stove- 
handle  the  kerosene  had  gathered  in  little  pools,  and 
from  these  slim  tongues  of  flame  leaped  up.  It  was  a 
curious-looking  stove,  and  it  sent  out  a  curious-smell- 
ing smudge,  but  Hugh  took  it  calmly.  He  was  a 
great,  stout,  hardy  fellow,  not  to  be  disturbed  by  trifles. 
He  said  he  was  going  to  the  Klondike  in  the  spring, 
and  already  could  see  himself  in  his  mind's  eye  picking 
up  the  gold  "  midgets  "  there. 

About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  had  a  chance  to 


2j6  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

find  out  what  a  bumboat  was.  It  came  from  some 
town  on  the  distant  shore  —  a  rude  little  steamer,  not 
much  larger  than  a  good-sized  rowboat,  peddling  vege- 
tables, fruits,  butter,  milk,  and,  in  the  season,  ice  cream 
and  bottled  drinks.  It  crept  up  to  us  piping  its  in- 
fantile whistle,  and  after  fastening  itself  to  the  front 
tier  of  boats  and  doing  what  trading  it  could,  cast 
loose,  and  with  another  announcement  of  attenuated 
toots,  dropped  back  to  the  next  tier.  Our  tow  was  a 
little  world  in  itself.  These  bumboats  constituted  our 
only  connection  with  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  the 
excitements  of  the  voyage  are  so  few  that  their  visits 
were  always  welcome.  The  bumboats  make  the  tows 
their  chief  source  of  income,  but  they  also  do  trading 
along  the  wharves  of  their  home  towns  and  of  villages 
neighboring. 

Each  tier  of  the  tow  is  separated  from  that  in  front 
and  behind  by  six  or  eight  feet  of  water.  The  space 
is  spanned  by  a  few  strands  of  rope,  but  this  makes  so 
slight  a  connection  that  sociability  with  neighbors  who 
precede  or  follow  is  to  a  large  extent  cut  off.  A  man, 
if  he  chooses,  can  put  one  leg  over  a  rope  and  hitch 
himself  across  the  vacancy,  but  not  many  attempt  this. 
Our  captain  was  the  only  one  I  saw  do  it.  I  suppose 
there  was  no  special  danger,  but  I  would  prefer  to  have 
something  else  below  me  than  that  turmoil  of  water  if 
I  were  to  follow  his  example.  He  had  put  on  a  dress 
coat  right  after  dinner,  and  crossed  the  rope,  and  spent 


Two  CANAL-BOAT  CAPTAINS 


A   Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the   Hudson        277 

half  the  afternoon  roosted  on  a  cabin  roof  talking  with 
Captain  Jones,  who  owned  two  boats  in  the  tier  ahead 
of  us: 

Our  social  intercourse  was  mostly  with  the  old 
Frenchman  and  his  wife,  who  owned  the  antiquated 
ice-boat  in  our  tier.  Our  folks  visited  with  them  back 
and  forth  by  the  hour.  His  strong  point  was  politeness, 
and  hers  talkativeness.  They  did  a  great  deal  of  scrub- 
bing during  the  day,  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  there 
was  danger  of  running  short  of  material  to  exercise 
their  scrubbing  energy  on,  the  wife  exhumed  a  rug 
of  Brussels  carpeting  and  laid  it  on  the  cabin  roof. 
The  husband  looked  at  her  doubtfully  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  when  she  poured  a  pail  of  water  over 
it.  Then  she  rubbed  on  soap  and  scoured  it  with  a 
brush,  and  next  squeezed  the  water  out  with  a  bit  of 
wood.  After  that  she  began  at  the  beginning  again, 
with  the  pouring  on  of  water,  and  so  she  continued,  as 
if  bent  on  wearing  the  rug  out.  The  man  saw  his  roof 
getting  dirty,  and  mounted  it  with  his  broom  and  swept 
it  almost  as  assiduously  as  his  wife  scoured  the  carpet. 
Now  and  then  he  would  pause  and  look  at  her  specu- 
latively,  as  if  it  was  beyond  his  ken  what  his  wife's  real 
intentions  were  with  regard  to  that  carpet.  Once  he 
inquired,  mildly,  if  it  wouldn't  get  dirty  again,  and  she 
said  yes,  it  would  be  just  as  bad  as  ever  in  a  week.  At 
this  the  man  appeared  a  shade  downcast,  but  he  did 
not  venture  to  question  the  wisdom  of  the  labor.  His 


278  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

wife  scolded  him  well  from  time  to  time  for  his  clumsi- 
ness. He  was  rather  stiff,  but  he  meant  well,  and  I 
thought  she  had  an  exaggerated  idea  of  his  incapacity. 
He  had  a  placating  tone  and  a  placating  manner,  but  it 
was  apparently  all  lost  on  the  woman. 

It  is  not  simply  adults  who  live  on  the  tows,  but 
whole  families,  from  babies  up  to  grandmothers  ;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that,  being  always  on  the  water,  they 
were  subject  to  peculiar  dangers.  I  asked  Duncan 
about  this.  It  was  in  one  of  the  morning  showers,  and 
he  had  got  a  pailful  of  suds  from  Mrs.  Libbey,  and 
brought  it  over  to  our  cabin  to  do  some  washing.  He 
fixed  up  a  seat,  put  his  dirty  garments  in  the  pail,  and, 
after  expressing  a  longing  for  a  wash-board,  scrubbed 
the  clothes  out  on  his  knuckles.  He  said  Mrs.  Libbey 
was  willing  enough  to  wash  for  him,  but  he  didn't  want 
to  be  beholden  to  her.  "If  she  did  favors  for  me, 
she'd  expect  me  to  do  'em  for  her,  and  if  I  shouldn't 
do  'em,  why,  she'd  chew  about  it  somewhere." 

In  reply  to  my  question  about  the  canal-boat  dan- 
gers, he  told  how,  two  years  before,  two  girls  lost  their 
lives.  "  They  danced  overboard,"  he  said.  "  There 
was  a  fiddle  playin'  on  the  tier  ahead,  and  they  caught 
hold  of  each  other  for  a  little  waltz,  and  one  of  them 
stepped  over  the  side  of  the  boat  and  she  clung  to 
the  other,  and  they  both  went  in  and  were  drownded." 

Duncan  now  got  up  and  put  his  head  out  of  the 
hatchway.  "  Come  here  a  minute,"  said  he. 


A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the   Hudson        279 

"  You  see  that  long,  rocky  island  we're  comin'  to 
with  the  woods  on  it  ?  Well,  it  was  right  about  oppo- 
site to  that  I  had  a  child  of  mine  drownded.  I  owned 
a  boat  in  those  days,  and  my  wife  and  three  children 
were  on  board.  There  was  a  bumboat  come  up  along- 
side the  outer  boat,  and  I  went  to  go  over  to  it  with 
one  of  the  children,  and  my  driver  he  took  my  little 
girl,  and  we  were  goin'  to  buy  the  children  some  candy; 
and  when  the  man  was  steppin'  across  from  one  boat 
to  another  it  must  'a'  been  the  boats  pulled  apart  and 
he  didn't  calculate  right,  and  down  they  went.  I  never 
see  it  happen,  and  I  didn't  look  around  until  I  heard 
some  one  cry  there  was  a  man  overboard.  We  got  the 
man  out,  but  my  little  girl  never  rose.  She  must  'a' 
went  in  under  the  boats. 

"  We  couldn't  stop  the  tow,  and  I  got  off  on  the 
bumboat  and  stayed  behind.  It  was  eight  days  before 
we  found  the  body.  She'd  be  seventeen  years  old 
now,  if  she'd  lived.  That  sickened  my  wife  of  boat- 
ing. She  was  always  afraid  we'd  be  losing  our  other 
two  children  ;  so  I  sold  out  and  bought  a  little  ten- 
acre  farm.  I  got  six  children  now,  and  my  wife  thinks 
we  better  give  'em  more  education  'n  they  could  get 
on  the  canal  ;  and  so  I  earn  money  summers  boating, 
while  she  runs  the  farm  with  the  children,  and  I  guess 
we'll  give  'em  some  schoolin'.  I  didn't  get  much 
myself.  I  went  on  the  canal  when  I  was  ten,  and 
after  I  got  to  boatin'  you  couldn't  dog  me  oft"  it. 


280  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

Well,  I  tell  you,  I  get  thirty-five  dollars  a  month  and 
board,  and  it's  a  steady  job.  There  ain't  many  things 
you  could  do  better  in." 

With  this  he  wrung  out  the  pair  of  trousers  he  had 
been  at  work  on  and  carried  them  up  to  the  deck 
and  hung  them  on  the  swaying  rudder-handle. 

There  was  no  pause  in  our  voyage.  Night  and 
day  alike  we  continued  to  toil  steadily  southward. 
The  steamer,  dragging  us  by  three  sagging  tow-ropes, 
was  so  far  on  ahead  that  no  sound  came  to  us  from 
it  save  when  it  whistled,  but  we  could  see  the  meas- 
ured sway  of  its  walking-beam,  and  we  could  see  the 
water  breaking  into  foam  beneath  its  paddles,  and  the 
smoke  drifting  away  from  its  tall  chimneys. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  when  I  looked 
out  soon  after  sunrise,  I  found  New  York  had  come 
into  view,  dim  in  the  hazy  south.  We  were  passing 
the  last  of  the  Palisades,  and  I  regretted  to  think  that 
during  the  night  we  had  gone  by  much  of  the  river's 
finest  scenery.  The  most  impressive  view  of  the 
trip  was  one  I  had  had  at  Storm  King  the  evening 
before,  and  I  doubt  if  the  whole  length  of  the  river 
affords  anything  finer.  We  had  passed  the  twinkling 
lights  of  Newburg,  and  I  had  gone  below  to  while 
away  the  evening,  when  the  captain  called  to  me.  I 
had  not  thought  the  Highlands  so  near,  and  the  sight 
from  the  deck  was  a  surprise.  The  river  had  nar- 
rowed, and,  on  either  hand,  a  rugged  mountain 


A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on  the   Hudson       281 

shouldered  up  into  the  sky.  The  full  moon  sailed 
among  the  clouds,  and  the  great  cliffs  frowning  down 
on  our  gloomy  line  of  canal-boats  were  very  striking 
and  powerful. 

Through  the  eurly  voyage  the  shores  were  monoto- 
nous, and,  lower  down,  where  we  should  have  seen  the 
blue  ranges  of  the  Catskills,  the  mists  shrouded  the 
distance  completely.  Frequent  residences  looked  out 
on  us  from  the  wooded  banks,  and  now  and  then  we 
passed  a  town.  Often  a  great  ice-house  would  loom 
up  at  the  water's  edge,  and  on  both  sides  of  the  river 
were  lines  of  railroad  tracks  where  the  trains  at  close 
intervals  were  speeding  along,  sending  out  to  us  the 
faint  rumble  of  their  wheels  and  the  sharp  notes  of 
their  whistles.  These  were  the  chief  land  features, 
while  such  was  the  great  size  of  the  river  itself  that 
though  it  is  a  great  highway,  the  craft  on  it  seemed 
few  and  far  between  until  we  neared  New  York. 


The  Steamer  dragging  the  To\v 


282  New   England  and  its   Neighbors 

We  had  the  city  in  sight  at  dawn,  but  the  tide  was 
against  us,  and  we  were  all  the  morning  reaching  our 
destination  at  its  lower  end.  The  sun  shone  clear 
and  hot,  and  the  glare  of  the  white-painted  boats, 
added  to  the  heat,  made  the  exposed  deck  rather 
uncomfortable.  Still,  there  was  a  fascination  about 
the  approach  to  the  city  that  made  it  impossible 
to  stay  long  in  the  cabins.  The  multitude  of  build- 
ings, the  shipping  that  crowded  the  miles  of  wharves 
and  filled  the  wide  river  with  the  coming  and  going 
of  vessels  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  roused  us  and  kept 
our  interest  on  tiptoe. 

One  member  of  our  fleet's  company  I  had  seen  little 
of  heretofore,  but  to-day  he  was  much  in  evidence. 
This  was  a  young  man  who  was  a  passenger  like  myself, 
only  he  was  wholly  penniless  and  slept  under  a  manger 
among  the  horses.  There  he  had  dozed  away  most  of 
the  voyage.  Hugh  said  the  man  was  "working"  his 
way  to  New  York,  but  that  must  have  been  metaphor, 
for  I  never  saw  him  do  anything  that  looked  like  labor. 
The  day  previous  I  had  learned  that  he  had  had  nothing 
to  eat  since  we  left  Albany,  and  that  moved  me  to  crawl 
down  into  his  stable-cabin  and  offer  my  cookies  and 
can  of  salmon.  He  accepted  hungrily,  and  began  to 
eat  at  once  just  where  he  was,  under  the  manger.  This 
last  day  he  showed  more  spirit,  and  was  out  on  deck  in 
the  sun  watching  the  city  with  considerable  interest. 
He  was  a  seedy,  shiftless-looking  fellow.  His  cloth- 


HOUSE-CLEANING  TIME 


A  Canal-boat  Voyage  on   the   Hudson        283 

ing  was  dirty  and  ragged,  his  shoes  were  breaking  out, 
his  necktie  was  frayed,  and  his  felt  hat  had  holes  worn 
through  in  the  creases.  He  talked  with  the  crew  freely, 
and  spoke  of  himself  as  a  "prodigal  son."  He  said 
his  father  was  a  New  York  broker  and  a  man  of  wealth. 
He  could  imagine  him  with  his  arms  open  to  receive 
him  and  ready  to  put  a  ring  on  his  ringer  and  kill  the 
fatted  calf.  "  It's  more  likely,  though,"  he  added, 
"that  I'm  the  fatted  calf  that'll  get  killed.  Still,  I 
haven't  bothered  the  old  gent  for  over  a  year  now, 
and  he  ought  to  be  thankful  for  that." 

There  was  a  general  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  tow  to  make  a  good  appearance  in 
our  approach  to  the  metropolis.  Clothes-lines  were 
taken  in  ;  the  rough,  everyday  working  garments  were 
changed  for  better,  and  most  of  the  men  took  pains 
to  shave.  When  you  saw  them  at  their  best,  they 
were  by  no  means  unattractive. 

On  the  whole,  I  got  an  agreeable  impression  of  the 
canal-boat  folk.  There  was  a  home  air  about  them 
that  was  unexpected.  They  were  hard-working  and 
thrifty,  and  the  drinking  habit  was  the  exception  rather 
than  the  rule.  To  be  sure,  the  men  swore  a  good  deal, 
even  in  their  ordinary  conversation,  but  they  did  this 
with  no  air  of  profanity.  It  was  just  an  oil  to  the  flow 
of  their  remarks.  In  their  feeling  it  apparently  made 
what  they  said  clearer,  and  themselves  more  compan- 
ionable. The  women,  too,  made  free  with  slang  and 


284  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

spiced  their  remarks  with  "  Gosh,"  "  poor  devil," 
"  damn,"  and  even  rougher  expressions,  yet  they  were 
not  without  a  certain  refinement. 

Our  captain  was  probably  a  fair  example  of  the 
successful  canal-boatman.  He  had  started  on  the  canal 
as  a  driver  when  ten  years  old.  Now,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-five,  he  owned  three  boats  that  were  worth 
on  an  average  $2000  each,  and  he  also  owned  a 
fifteen-acre  farm.  The  farm  produces  hay  enough 
to  winter  his  horses  and  twenty  others,  and  he  values 
it  at  $5000.  He  was  sober  and  hard-working,  and  it 
is  only  such  who  ever  rise  to  the  ownership  of  boats. 

There  is  a  rougher  element  on  the  canal.  These  are 
the  "  trippers  "  —  men  hired  as  drivers  just  for  the 
passage  through  the  canal.  They  are  often  hard 
characters  with  no  more  clothes  than  they  wear  on 
their  backs,  and,  as  soon  as  they  are  paid  off,  take  a 
vacation  and  spend  all  their  gains  in  a  spree  before 
they  go  to  work  again.  "  Yes,"  said  Duncan,  "  soon 
as  the  trippers  get  their  money  they  blow  it  all  right 
in  that  same  night.  Next  morning  when  they're  sober- 
ing up,  they'll  do  most  anything  to  get  some  more 
drink.  Why,  one  feller  sold  me  a  pair  of  rubber 
boots  for  a  quarter,  that  he'd  paid  two-ninety  for  a 
few  days  before,  but  he  said  he  was  'bliged  to  have 
the  liquor  anyhow." 

Most  captains  take  no  notice  of  Sundays,  yet 
there  are  those  who  tie  up  on  the  Sabbath  and  go  to 


A   Canal-boat  Voyage  on   the   Hudson        285 

church.  They  will  even  lose  three  or  four  hours  of 
Saturday  rather  than  be  where  there  is  no  church. 
But  wages  go  on  Sunday  the  same  as  week-days,  and 
the  average  man  sees  a  clear  loss  of  five  or  six  dollars 
in  tying  up,  and  he  thinks  he  can't  afford  it. 

Some  of  the  families  winter  on  their  boats  lying  at 
the  wharves  in  New  York  City,  and  they  say  they  do 
it  very  comfortably.  Mrs.  Libbey  told  of  a  friend 
who  tried  living  in  a  tenement  instead.  The  family 
paid  eighteen  dollars  a  month  rent,  and  it  was  a 
crowded,  stifling  little  place,  not  nearly  so  good  as  a 
canal-boat. 

The  freighting  season  lasts  from  May  to  December, 
and  in  the  cold  weather  the  majority  of  the  boat-folk 
are  at  their  home  villages  in  central  New  York.  They 
don't  work  very  hard  in  winter,  they  said,  but  just  dress 
well  and  have  a  good  time.  The  women,  in  particular, 
enjoy  the  winter.  "  The  summer,"  said  Hugh,  "  is 
all  rain  for  them,  but  the  winter  is  all  sunshine." 

The  men  mostly  marry  girls  brought  up  on  the 
canal,  and  when  they  do  pick  out  a  girl  unused  to  the 
boating  environment  they  are  apt  to  find  they  made  a 
mistake,  for  she  usually  is  not  fitted  for  the  life  and 
"  can't  get  to  like  it." 

Noon  came,  and  we  had  arrived  opposite  the  pictur- 
esque jumble  of  lofty  buildings  at  the  lower  end  ot  the 
city.  A  little  later  we  were  making  hist  to  a  pier  down 
ne.ar  the  Battery,  and  I  prepared  to  leave.  Personally,  I 


286 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


had  received  only  kindness  and  hospitality  on  the  trip, 
and  the  voyage  had  held  so  much  that  was  novel  and 
interesting  that  it  was  with  real  regret  that  I  left  the 

O  O 

canal-boats  and    became    an    ordinary  landsman   once 


more. 


Arriving  in  New  York 


XIII 


THE    AUTUMN    CATTLE    SHOW 

IN  New  England's 
purely     farming 
districts  the  cattle 
show  is  the  one  event 
of  the  year  that  attains 
to    genuine    greatness. 
It  is  in   such   districts 
you  see  it  at  its   best 
—  a   rural    picnic    that 
draws  to  it  the  people 

of  all  the  countryside. 
The  "  Nigger  "  Target  The  towng  and  vi]lages 

roundabout  are  depopulated.  I  am  not  sure  that  the 
ministers  go,  but  the  church  elders  are  on  hand  with 
their  fat  cattle  and  all  the  varied  farm  belongings  in 
which  they  take  pride ;  and  so  are  their  wives  and 
daughters  and  other  members  of  the  family,  even  to 
the  hired  man. 

It  is  the  social  element  which  gives  the  fair  its  most 

o 

vital  attraction.     The  people  come  not  so  much  because 

287 


288  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

of  the  races,  the  exhibits,  and  the  pleasure-making 
contrivances,  as  because  of  the  certainty  of  meeting 
all  their  friends  and  acquaintances.  In  the  two  days 
of  the  show  they  pick  up  more  news  than  they  would 
in  months  of  ordinary  days.  "  I  ain't  seen  you  sence 
the  cattle  show  last  year,"  you  will  hear  one  woman 
say  to  another.  "  Why  don't  you  come  and  make  me 
a  call  once  in  a  while  ?  It  ain't  but  eight  miles."  And 
when  the  preliminary  whys  and  wherefores  have  been 
settled  to  mutual  satisfaction  they  fall  to  detailing  the 
happenings  of  the  past  twelve  months,  lingering  with 
especial  minuteness  over  the  ravages  of  death  and 
disease. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  better  place  to  see  the  country 
fair  than  at  Cummington,  in  western  Massachusetts, 
a  town  that  possesses  the  double  distinction  of  having 
the  cattle-show  grounds  of  the  district,  and  of  being 
the  birthplace  of  William  Cullen  Bryant.  It  lies 
among  the  tumbled  hills  which  abound  in  that  part 
of  the  state,  and  is  far  from  railroads  and  large  centres 
of  population.  The  region  for  many  miles  around  is 
one  of  scattered  farms  and  little  villages.  Probably 
no  town  tributary  to  the  fair  contains  much  over  one 
thousand  inhabitants,  and  some  fall  a  good  deal  short 
of  that  number. 

The  fair  is  held  the  last  of  September.  Autumn 
comes  early  on  the  hills.  All  the  corn  is  cut  and 
stacked  in  the  fields.  Nature's  year's  work  is  about 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show  289 

finished.  Nearly  all  the  banditti  weeds  and  flowering 
plants  of  field  and  wood  are  weighted  with  seeds,  or 
the  seeds  have  flown  and  only  empty  husks  remain. 

The  road  by  which  I  approached  the  fair-grounds 
led  much  of  the  way  through  the  woodlands,  orange 
and  yellow  with  turning  leafage.  Dwellings  were  few 
and  far  between,  and  it  was  nothing  unusual  to  drive 
for  miles  without  seeing  aught  more  closely  related  to 
a  human  habitation  than  a  lonely  gray  sugar-house 
in  a  patch  of  rock  maples.  Sometimes  a  squirrel 
chattered  at  me,  sometimes  a  crow  flapped  into  view 
overhead,  gave  a  disturbed  caw  or  two,  and  hastened 
away,  and  once  I  roused  a  partridge  that  disappeared 
with  a  startled  whir  of  wings.  But  as  a  whole  the 
woods  were  very  quiet.  The  last  few  miles  of  the 
way  I  did  not  lack  company.  There  were  teams 
before  and  teams  behind  —  a  long  string  of  them 
climbing  the  final  hill,  bumping  over  the  "  thank-you- 
marms  "  and  rattling  across,  one  after  the  other,  the 
frequent  little  wooden  bridges  that  spanned  the  rivulets 
the  road  encountered.  Most  of  them  were  family 
teams  of  two  or  three  seats,  but  there  were  many  top 
buggies  cleaned  up  for  the  occasion,  each  holding  "  a 
fellow  and  his  girl."  Then  there  were  the  confirmed 
old  bachelors,  who  rode  alone ;  and  there  was  the 
more  pronounced  jockey  element  represented  by  men 
who  usually  brought  along  a  single  male  companion. 
As  I  neared  the  grounds  I  began  to  see  teams  hitched 


290  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

to  the  trees  along  the  roadside.  The  owners  were 
careful  not  to  leave  anything  of  value  in  their  vehicles, 
and  every  man  who  had  a  whip  that  was  worth  stealing 
insured  its  safety  by  taking  it  along  with  him.  When- 
ever and  wherever  you  met  him  later  in  the  day  you 
would  find  him  with  the  whip  in  his  hands. 

The  grounds  with  their  one-third  of  a  mile  race- 
course lay  in  an  elevated  hollow  of  the  hills  that 
seemed  to  be  the  only  spot  in  the  region  sufficiently 
level  to  lay  out  such  a  track.  Immediately  surround- 
ing were  either  rough  depressions  or  rocky  ridges, 
and  some  of  this  wild  land  was  inside  of  the  high 
board  fence  that  engirdled  the  fair-grounds. 

By  paying  a  little  extra  one  was  privileged  to  drive 
his  team  through  the  entrance  gate  and  keep  it  on 
the  grounds  all  day  if  he  chose.  A  favorite  resort  of 
vehicles  was  a  grassy  hill  that  rose  within  the  circle 
of  the  race-course.  Here  the  wagons  were  left  while 
the  horses  were  led  away  to  be  hitched  elsewhere. 

If  you  arrived  after  things  got  well  going,  you  struck 
pandemonium  the  moment  you  passed  through  the 
wide  wooden  gates.  "  Fakirs  "  and  travelling  tradesmen 
had  been  coming  by  every  road  all  the  day  before,  and 
the  centre  of  the  grounds  was  now  full  of  booths 
and  tents,  with  an  intermingling  of  peddling  wagons 
and  stands  and  amusement  paraphernalia.  The  place 
was  a  great  human  beehive.  Those  who  had  come 
to  make  money  strove  to  attract  trade  by  continual 


The  Autumn   Cattle  Show 


291 


shouting,  and  a  brass  band  played  enlivening  strains  at 
frequent  intervals,  while  the  crowd  itself  was  in  con- 
stant motion,  and  there  was  a  never  ceasing  undertone 
of  voices  talking,  calling,  and  laughing.  It  was  a 
motley  throng, 
including  peo- 
ple of  every 
age,  from  babies 
and  toddlers  up 
to  nonagena- 
rians. Many 
of  the  folk  were 
dressed  taste- 
fully and  in 
modern  styles, 
but  others,  by 
reason  of  care- 
lessness or  isola- 
tion or  poverty, 
wore  garments 

o 
that    were    Very  Children  Sightseers 

antiquated.  Then,  too,  there  seemed  to  be  a  curious 
difference  of  opinion  as  to  whether  winter  or  summer 
apparel  was  the  more  appropriate. 

Some  of  the  attendants  were  strange-looking  peo- 
ple, suggestive  of  caricature — raw,  long-haired  boys, 
gnarled  men  with  quaintly  trimmed  beards,  and  faded 
women,  the  lines  and  expressions  of  whose  faces 


292  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

brought  up  before  one  visions  of  olden  times.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  were  present  more  or  less  city 
folk,  to  whom  a  rural  jollification  of  this  sort  was  a 
very  real  pleasure.  Another  class  of  outsiders  was  that 
of  the  gentry  politicians  of  the  county,  who  had  come 
to  pull  wires  in  anticipation  of  the  approaching  elec- 
tion, and  to  pose  in  the  eyes  of  the  public  as  genial 
good  fellows. 

Wherever  the  crowd  gathered  thickest  there  hovered 
peddlers  of  pop-corn,  peanuts,  grapes,  peaches,  and  five- 
cent  cigars — the  standard  price  at  cattle  shows.  There, 
too,  you  found  the  man  with  the  bunch  of  colored  bal- 
loons. While  in  his  hands  they  pulled  jauntily  sky- 
ward, but  once  transferred  to  the  children  they  were 
very  apt  to  soon  burst  or  droop  to  earth.  The  itiner- 
ant hawker  and  distributor  of  happiness  who  seemed 
to  be  most  successful  was  one  who  carried  little  striped 
whips,  and  squeaky  whistles  with  rubber  sacks  on  the 
end.  "  Catbags  "  was  the  expressive  name  of  these 
whistles.  You  blew  and  distended  the  rubber,  then 
took  it  away  from  your  mouth,  and  the  thing  emitted 
a  long,  wailing  piping  quite  enchanting  to  the  ears  of 
childhood ;  but  to  older  people  the  noise  was  rather 
distracting  after  it  had  been  heard  continuously  for  a 
few  hours. 

Not  all  the  interest  was  confined  to  the  show 
grounds.  Just  outside,  near  the  entrance,  was  a 
peculiar  gathering  of  men  who  were  getting  all  the 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show 


293 


fun  they  could  without  going  in.  They  were  toughs 
and  ne'er-do-wells  who  drove  rusty,  ancient  vehicles 
and  abused-looking  horses,  which  they  were  always 


Without  the  Gate 

ready  to  swap  or  sell.  Toward  noon,  when  I  went  out 
for  a  stroll,  most  of  the  gang  were  collected  about  an 
old  negro.  He  was  sitting  in  a  shaky  buggy,  and  was 
trying  to  get  an  offer  for  his  old  white  nag.  "  There 
ain't  a  blemish  on  him,"  the  negro  declared,  and  he 
cantered  his  steed  down  the  road  to  show  his  paces. 

The  dickering  was  long-drawn-out  and  resultless, 
and  finally  the  negro  said  he  must  go  home  and  get 
something  to  eat.  As  he  started  off,  he  remarked  : 
"  Well,  I  can't  sell  you  this  horse,  gentlemen,  an'  I 
can't  swap  him.  Nobody  don't  want  such  a  horse 
'cause  he's  a  poor  horse." 


294 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


Cattle  show  gets  its  name  from  its  exhibit  of  farm 
creatures,  and  these,  either  in  pens  or  tied  to  lines  of 
railing,  occupied  an  acre  or  two  on  the  inner  borders 
of  the  race-course.  About  them  the  men  gathered  in 
force  to  discuss  the  merits  of  the  various  animals. 
Hence,  in  that  vicinity  you  got  a  concentrated  essence 
of  Yankee  smoking,  spitting,  and  dialect  such  as  it 
would  not  be  'easy  to  match  the  world  over. 

The  centre  of  interest  for  the  women  was  a  large, 
barnlike,  two-story  hall,  the  most  prominent  structure 


from  the  Neighboring  Town 

on  the  grounds.  In  it  were  exhibited  a  thousand  and 
one  products  of  housewifely  art  and  of  agricultural 
success.  One  section  was  devoted  to  flowers  from 
home  flower-beds.  Some  were  in  pails,  some  in  pots, 


The  Autumn   Cattle  Show  295 

and  some  in  cheese-hoops  and  soap-boxes,  and,  besides, 
there  were  cut  flowers  in  extraordinary  bouquets — dec- 
orative erections  that  were  certainly  ingeniously  and 
fantastically  contrived  if  they  were  not  as  beautiful  as 
the  designers  and  constructors  believed  them  to  be. 
A  few  steps  farther  on  and  you  were  among  the  fruits 
and  vegetables.  Here  was  a  great  concourse  of  plates 
with  fine  apples,  pears,  peaches,  or  quinces  on  each. 
Then  there  were  grapes,  plums,  strings  of  onions, 
heaps  of  beets,  carrots,  cabbages,  and  such  things,  and 
a  squash  calculated  to  make  one  gape  with  wonder  at 
its  immensity.  Next  in  order  was  an  exhibit  of  butter 
and  of  cheeses,  the  latter  brown  and  wrinkled  and  rather 
unattractive  outwardly,  yet  at  the  same  time  suggestive 
of  a  certain  ripeness  and  inner  richness.  There  were 
pickles  and  cans  of  preserves  and  loaves  of  bread,  all 
hopeful  of  prize  honors ;  and,  set  against  the  windows 
to  show  their  color  and  translucence,  were  bottles  of 
maple  syrup  and  tumblers  of  jelly. 

The  display  in  the  lower  room  of  the  hall  was  dis- 
tinctively of  the  fields  and  kitchen,  while  that  of  the 
room  upstairs  was  as  decidedly  an  exhibition  of  the 
arts  of  the  sitting  room  and  parlor.  The  array  of 
fancy  work  was  such  as  might  rival  the  show-window 
of  a  dry-goods  store.  Every  inch  of  space  on  the  long 
tables  was  full,  and  many  articles  were  tacked  up  on 
the  walls  or  draped  over  lines  as  if  hung  up  to  dry 
indoors  after  a  rainy  Monday's  wash.  Patchwork 


296  New   England  and   its  Neighbors 

quilts  were  favorites  for  demonstrating  a  woman's 
prowess  with  the  needle  and  taste  in  making  com- 
binations. Some  of  them  contained  so  vast  a  number 
of  tiny  pieces  it  made  one  weary  just  to  look  at  them 
and  think  of  the  labor  involved.  Yet  therein  lay  their 
merit.  Such  a  quilt  is  a  monument  to  the  patience 
and  skilful  industry  of  the  maker,  and  as  such  will  be 
a  source  of  pleasure  to  her  as  long  as  she  lives.  Quite 
likely  it  may  be  laid  away  as  too  good  for  common 
use  and  be  handed  down  in  the  family  as  an  heirloom. 
Besides  its  other  excellences  it  has  the  virtue  of  being 
a  record  of  feminine  garments  worn  by  the  family  and 
by  the  family  friends  —  everyday  dresses,  wedding 
dresses,  baby  dresses.  The  whole  gamut  of  human 
life  is  pictured  in  the  texture  of  the  coverlet,  and  the 
constructor  can  probably  recognize  and  give  some- 
thing of  the  history  of  each  dress  and  person  there 
represented. 

Other  favorite  articles  shown  at  the  cattle  show  were 
elaborate  rag  rugs,  sofa  pillows,  home-knit  mittens 
and  stockings,  worsted  slippers,  delicate  doilies,  and 
quantities  of  crocheting.  "  Mary  Stevens  done  that," 
said  a  woman,  picking  up  some  of  the  most  intricate 
of  the  embroidery  and  calling  her  husband's  attention 
to  it.  "  Ain't  it  remarkable  how  she  can  do  such  a 
lot  with  her  needle,  and  she  a  cripple  that  can't  put 
her  hand  up  to  her  head,  and  not  even  feed  herself!" 

I  thought  the  needlework  showed  a  distinct  love  of 


The  Autumn   Cattle  Show  297 

color  and  prettiness  quite  independent  of  utility  and 
fitness;  for  certainly  a  good  deal  of  it  would  be  hope- 
lessly out  of  harmony  in  the  average  home.  A  more 
satisfactory  phase  of  the  exhibit  was  the  housewifely 
thrift  that  was  apparent  in  discovering  possibilities  in 
odds  and  ends  of  waste.  Here  was  the  old  wearing 
apparel  rejuvenated  in  the  form  of  rag  carpets,  rugs, 
sofa  pillows,  etc.,  but  the  climax  in  this  transformation 
of  household  debris  was  reached  in  a  pretty  vase  that 
had  acorns,  suspender  buttons,  nails,  iron  nuts,  and 
other  hardware  stuck  into  its  yielding  surface,  and  then 
the  whole  had  been  gilded.  It  was  an  ingenious  use 
of  rubbish,  but  the  result  looked  like  the  product  of 
some  heathen  nation  of  Africa  or  South  America. 

Art  pure  and  simple  was  represented  by  a  number 
of  hand-painted  plates  and  silk  banners  and  several 
pictures  in  oils,  water-colors,  and  pastel.  The  subjects 
which  the  artists  chose  to  depict  were  usually  either 
flowers  or  impossibly  romantic  landscapes.  But, 
though  the  pictures  received  their  due  share  of  ad- 
miration, they  did  not  stir  the  hearts  of  most  as  did 
the  long-houred  intricacy  of  the  fancy  needlework. 

One  corner  of  the  upper  hall  was  reserved  for  a 
children's  department,  and  here  was  a  six-year-old's 
loaf  of  bread  occupying  a  place  of  honor  amid  a  whole 
table  full  of  cookery  and  canned  fruits  and  jellies  and 
pickles,  the  handiwork  of  other  housekeepers  of  ten- 
der years.  The  children  showed,  too,  a  collection  of 


298  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

small  hens'  eggs,  several  plates  of  fruit,  some  very 
big  cucumbers  and  some  very  little  pumpkins,  and 
there  were  exhibited  many  child  efforts  at  patchwork, 
splashers,  cushions,  and  a  variety  of  pufferies  and  vani- 
ties in  the  needlework  line,  for  which  my  vocabulary 
has  no  names.  The  shining  light  among  the  boy 
exhibitors  was  one  who  showed  sixty  different  kinds 
of  beans  of  his  own  raising.  If  he  did  not  get  a  half- 
dollar  prize,  I  do  not  think  the  judges  did  their  duty. 

The  prize  committees  I  saw  at  work  had  the  air  of 
feeling  a  due  sense  of  their  responsibility,  and  I  sup- 
pose they  worried  out  their  decisions  as  fairly  as  they 
could,  though  these  were  sure  to  be  regarded  with 
critical  dissent  by  the  owners  of  the  goods  that  did  not 
find  favor  in  their  eyes.  Still,  the  distinction  of  being 
one  of  the  judges  to  some  degree  compensated  for  the 
grumbling  of  the  dissatisfied  —  and,  besides,  the  com- 
mittees felt  at  liberty  to  sample  freely  the  more  tooth- 
some things  that  fell  under  their  judicial  care,  so  that 
in  certain  cases  the  things  judged  well-nigh  disappeared 
in  the  process  of  having  their  comparative  merits  settled. 

The  exercises  on  the  race-course  began  at  eleven 
o'clock  with  a  "  Grand  Cavalcade  of  Oxen."  Oxen 
have  largely  given  way  to  horses  on  the  New  England 
farms,  but  there  are  still  plenty  of  them  among  the 
hills,  and  the  cavalcade  was  impressively  long  and  slow 
and  sedate,  except  for  a  couple  of  little  steers  at  the 
end  of  the  procession  who  did  not  agree  with  the  boy 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show 


299 


in  charge  of  them  as  to  where  and  how  they  should  go. 
They  kept  the  lad  in  turmoil  all  through  the  march, 
and  put  him  to  shame  before  the  multitude.  A  touch 
of  humor  was  given  to  the  sober  trail  of  the  oxen  by 
a  long-legged  farmer  who  rode  astride  of  one  of  the 
creatures.  Another  man,  known  to  every  one  as 
"  Cephas,"  furnished  merriment  by  riding  in  one  of 
the  ox-carts  and  playing  a  little  organ  with  a  crank. 
As  Cephas  was  rigged  up  like  a  true  clown  in  an  out- 
landish costume  of  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  this 
was  a  very  popular  feature  of  the  parade. 


' 

._'  t-  -  _-  ..•  :„:    '  .-  -: 

The  Cavalcade  of  Oxen 

By  the  time  the  cavalcade  of  oxen  had  gone  the 
rounds  it  was  noon,  and  thought  turned  dinnerward. 
Some  resorted  to  the  eating  tents,  but  the  large  major- 
ity went  to  their  wagons  and  resurrected  from  under 
the  seats  various  boxes,  baskets,  tin  cans,  and  bottles, 


300  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

and  made  preparations  for  an  open-air  feast.  The 
food  was  generous  in  quantity,  and  it  had  a  holiday 
flavor  in  that  there  was  coffee  for  children  and  all,  and 
the  cake  had  frosting  on  it.  To  be  sure  the  coffee 
was  cold,  and  one  drinking  cup  did  for  several  of  the 
picnickers,  and  the  pie  had  caved  in,  but  accidents  and 
shortcomings  are  null  and  void  on  such  an  occasion. 
Often  relatives  who  lived  in  different  parts  of  the 
home  town  or  the  county  got  together  for  dinner  and 
the  victuals  of  both  parties  were  passed  about  indis- 
criminately. This  added  to  the  interest,  especially  to 
the  investigating  minds  of  the  children.  Even  the 
grown  people  showed  a  joking  preference  for  a  change 
from  the  home  cooking. 

Immediately  after  dinner  the  folk  began  to  resort 
to  the  "  grand  stand."  This  was  just  across  the  track 
from  the  judges'  two-story  pagoda,  whence  these  digni- 
taries viewed  the  races.  The  only  thing  grand  about 
the  stand  was  its  name,  for  it  was  nothing  but  a  few 
lines  of  unplaned  plank  seats  terraced  up  a  hillside. 
The  seats  were  soon  filled,  and  the  overflow  accommo- 
dated themselves  on  neighboring  stones  and  hillocks. 
An  old  gentleman  with  a  blue  sash  over  his  shoulder 
was  cantering  up  and  down  on  a  big  black  horse,  trying 
to  keep  the  crowd  off  the  race-course.  This  man  was 
the  marshal.  "All  go  across  that  want  tew,"  he  would 
call  out,  "  but  we  can't  have  yew  blocking  the  track." 

He  and  two  young  fellows  who  assisted  him   made 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show 


301 


feints  of  riding  down  the  crowd,  but  with  all  their 
efforts  they  could  not  keep  the  course  clear.  Several 
pairs  of  oxen  were  making  ready  to  draw  a  load  of 
stone  on  a  stone-boat,  and  the  crowd  was  bound  to  get 
close  up,  even  if  they  stopped  the  whole  performance. 


On  the  Grounds 

In  this  they  displayed  their  Yankee  independence, 
or,  to  use  a  term  that  more  exactly  describes  it,  their 
Yankee  hoggishness.  The  men  who  were  the  most 
obstreperous  were  those  who  had  been  drinking.  It 
was  a  no-license  region,  but  it  was  not  wholly  parched 
for  all  that,  and  rumor  said  you  could  get  "  crab-apple 
bitters  "  right  on  the  grounds.  There  was  one  man 


302  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

in  particular  whose  uncertain  step  and  swaggering 
manner  and  sense  of  importance  showed  that  he  had 
found  recent  inspiration  to  great  deeds  in  the  bottle. 
He  would  obey  no  orders,  and  once  when  an  official's 
horse  crowded  on  him  he  caught  its  bridle  and  called 
the  rider  a  hard  name.  This  rider  had  red  hair,  and 
therefore,  in  the  popular  estimation,  a  temper,  and  he 
instantly  responded  by  raising  a  little  whip  he  carried 
and  striking  the  drunken  man  square  in  the  face. 
That  made  the  latter  furious,  he  dropped  the  bridle, 
broke  into  oaths,  and  would  have  snatched  the  orderly 
out  of  the  saddle  had  not  others  restrained  him. 
Gradually  he  subsided,  but  for  some  minutes  serious 
fighting  seemed  immanent. 

"  What  an  ugly  craowd  there  is  here  !  "  remarked 
the  man  next  to  me.  "  They're  baon'  to  git  on  the 
track.  Some  one  ought  to  send  the  band  daown  here 
an'  let  'em  blow  them  fellers  aout ! 

"  I  wisht  they'd  quit  their  foolin'  and  begin,"  the 
man  continued,  after  a  pause.  "This  stun  I'm  settin' 
on  ain't  gettin'  any  softer.  If  I  don't  bring  a  seat 
with  me  tomorrer  then  I'm  a  liar." 

But  now  the  oxen  were  drawing.  They  only  dragged 
the  stone-boat  a  few  feet,  but  it  made  the  great  creatures 
pant  and  twist  painfully.  The  contest  was  between 
two  yokes,  and  after  the  first  had  been  successful  in 
its  effort  the  second  tried  it.  They,  too,  succeeded, 
and  then  more  stone  was  added.  So  the  trials  went 


To  BUY  OR  NOT  TO  Buy 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show  303 

on,  and  the  stones  were  piled  higher  till  one  pair  or 
the  other  found  the  load  beyond  its  strength  to  move. 
It  seemed  like  cruel  work,  yet  the  friend  at  my  elbow, 
regarding  the  final  struggles  of  the  champions,  imper- 
turbably  said,  "  They  handle  it  pretty  good  naow,  but 
I  don't  see  haow  any  farmer  can  work  with  cattle  — 
they're  so  blame  slow.  We  ain't  had  none  on  our 
place  sence  I  was  a  boy." 

Some  of  the  oxen  were  presently  attached  to  carts 
and  driven  about  to  show  their  training,  and  one  of 
the  drivers  got  up  in  his  cart  and  invited  the 
lookers-on  to  ride  with  him.  "  Don't  stan'  there 
star-gazin',"  he  called  out,  "  when  you  got  a  chance 
to  ride  with  a  good-lookin'  man."  So  a  dozen  chaffing 
young  fellows  clambered  into  the  cart  and  sat  around 
on  the  edges,  and  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the 
track. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  there  was  an  exhibition  of 
horses  and  colts,  and  the  day  ended  with  a  bicycle 
race. 

The  second  day  of  the  fair  was  distinguished  from 
the  first  by  being  called  "  the  horse  show."  There 
were  frequent  trotting  matches  on  the  race-course, 
both  morning  and  afternoon,  and  the  crowd  was  even 
larger  than  on  the  day  previous.  All  the  fakirs  were 
on  hand,  and  the  uniformed  brass  band  furnished  en- 
livenment  with  its  bursts  of  music.  In  short,  there 
was  for  the  pleasure-seekers  all  the  din  and  dust  and 


304  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

turmoil  that  contribute  to  make  the  occasion  notable 
and  interesting  in  its  strong  contrast  to  the  country 
quiet  and  repose  of  the  rest  of  the  year. 

The  races  were  not  professional,  and  were  the  more 
attractive  on  that  account.  We  were  not  watching  a 
contest  between  mere  racing-machines,  and  every  driver 
and  horse  had  a  readily  perceived  character  of  their 
own.  The  two  races  which  overtopped  all  others  in 
the  interest  aroused  were  the  two  which  were  most 
picturesque  and  amateurish.  In  the  first  a  woman 
drove  in  the  class  set  down  on  the  programme  as 
"  Carriage  Horses."  She  was  a  pleasing,  modest- 
looking  little  person,  with  a  fur  muffler  about  her 
neck.  The  sympathies  of  the  onlookers  were  hers 
from  the  beginning,  and  she  drove  in  such  a  steady, 
determined  way  that,  though  her  horse  was  not  in  first 
it  never  made  a  break,  and  she  did  the  neatest  driving 
of  any  of  the  contestants.  Everybody  cheered  when 
the  judges  fastened  the  blue  card  to  her  horse  that 
meant  she  had  taken  the  first  prize. 

The  other  race  was  open  only  to  lads  under  fifteen 
and  misses  under  twenty,  and  was  designed  more  to 
show  the  deftness  and  capacities  of  the  drivers  than 
the  mettle  of  their  steeds.  There  were  three  entries,  a 
dark-haired  girl,  stout  and  tanned,  her  poverty  evi- 
denced by  a  hat  three  or  four  years  out  of  date ;  a 
light-haired  girl  much  more  ladyfied  and  smartly 
dressed  than  the  other ;  and  a  freckle-faced  boy. 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show  305 

None  of  them  had  much  to  boast  of  in  the  way  of 
a  horse,  but  as  it  was  to  be  an  exhibition  of  skill  rather 
than  speed,  the  looks  of  the  animals  did  not  much 
matter.  They  lined  up  before  the  judges'  stand,  and 
at  a  given  signal  they  all  jumped  from  their  buggies, 
hastily  unhitched  their  horses  and  took  off  the  har- 
nesses. Then  they  as  hastily  restored  the  harnesses 
and  put  the  horses  into  the  shafts  again.  All  three 
were  nervous  and  excited,  and  their  feelings  were 
shared  to  a  considerable  extent  by  the  people  intently 
watching  them. 

Now  the  light-haired  girl  was  through  and  leaped 
into  her  buggy  and  was  off.  The  boy  was  only  an 
instant  behind,  and  it  looked  as  if  the  dark-haired  girl 
who  started  last  had  no  chance.  Round  the  course 
they  went,  and  on  the  second  circuit,  which  was  the 
final  and  decisive  one,  it  was  seen  that  the  dark-haired 
girl  was  gaining.  Near  the  close  she  was  about  to 
pass  her  rivals  when  they  laid  on  their  whips  and  their 
steeds  broke  into  a  gallop  and  left  her  to  come  in 
belated  and  alone.  The  judges  had  already  descended 
from  their  elevated  stand  to  look  into  the  manner  in 
which  the  three  had  accomplished  their  harnessing. 
Only  the  dark-haired  girl  had  done  this  perfectly. 
The  other  two  had  slighted  details  in  their  haste,  and 
on  the  course  they  had  not  kept  their  horses  in  good 
control.  The  first  prize  escaped  them,  and  the  light- 
haired  girl,  who  had  felt  sure  of  it  and  had  decided 


306  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

just  how  she  would  spend  the  money,  wept  with  the 
bitterness  of  the  disappointment. 

The  crowds  looking  on  at  the  races  kept  fluctuating 
—  people  were  coming  and  people  were  going  all  the 
time,  for  no  one  cared  to  spend  a  whole  day  on  any 
single  feature  of  the  fair,  however  fascinating.  Every- 
body had  brought  a  supply  of  spare  cash,  which  must 
be  spent,  and,  particularly  in  the  children's  case,  this 
money  burned  in  their  pockets  until  it  was  gone. 
There  was  some  regret  at  parting  with  the  last  of  it, 
and  yet  a  certain  satisfaction  in  having  the  matter 
settled  and  completed. 

For  the  hungry  there  were  dining  tents  set  with 
long  tables,  and  having  at  the  rear  improvised  open- 
air  kitchens.  Eating  resorts  of  a  humbler  sort  were 
the  booths  where  you  could  get  a  quick  lunch  of  rolls 
and  "  Frankfort  sausages  —  Coney  Island  style,"  and 
walk  off  with  the  repast  in  your  hand.  The  "  Coney 
Island  style  "  was  always  emphasized  by  the  vendors, 
and  it  was  clear  they  thought  it  added  vastly  to  the 
attraction. 

Then  there  were  booths  which  made  a  specialty  of 
candies,  fruits,  and  beautifully  tinted  cold  drinks,  set 
forth  seductively  in  large,  clear  glasses.  Colored  drinks 
apparently  sold  better  than  uncolored.  A  man  would 
perhaps  not  pay  any  more  for  pink  lemonade  than  for 
plain,  but  he  would  buy  it  quicker  and  feel  he  was 
getting  more  for  his  money. 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show 


307 


Cooking  Apparatus  at  the  Rear  of  the  Eating  Tents 

All  the  vendors  were  shouters  and  spared  no  effort 
in  vociferating  the  merits  of  their  very  desirable  wares, 
but  the  man  who  made  the  most  noise  was  a  whip 
merchant.  He  stood  in  the  tail  of  his  wagon  with 
his  stock  in  trade  in  a  rack  at  his  side,  while  down 
below  was  a  post  about  which  he  was  continually  snap- 
ping the  whips  to  show  how  good  they  were. 

"  There,"  says  he,  "  is  a  whip  you  couldn't  buy  in 
the  stores  for  less  'n  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  [snap,  snap, 
snap],  and,  gents,  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  have  it  for 
seventy-five  cents  [snap,  snap].  There's  good  timber 
in  that  whip.  See  —  you  can  bend  it  like  the  old 
Harry  !  Seventy-five  cents  !  Gosh,  it's  terrible,  cut- 


308  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

tin'  the  price  that  way,  but  I  can't  be  here  doin'  noth- 
in',  so  I  offer  inducements  [snap,  snap].  Grandpa 
[pointing  to  an  elderly  man  who  is  fumbling  in  his 
trousers  pocket],  you're  goin'  to  take  this  whip,  ain't 
you  ? " 

The  old  man  shakes  his  head,  and  instead  of  money 
extracts  a  generous  bandana  handkerchief  and  blows 
his  nose.  This  was  a  disappointment  to  the  whip 
man,  but  he  promptly  took  up  the  thread  of  his  dis- 
course and  said  :  "  Well,  boys,  now  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  Here's  a  little  red  bird  [picks  up  a  whip  with 
a  strip  of  red  on  the  handle]  and  here's  a  little  yellow 
bird.  Now  I'll  put  them  with  the  seventy-five  center, 
and  one  dollar  takes  'em  all." 

So  he  keeps  on  till  some  one  buys,  and  then  he  says 
he  will  make  up  a  lot  of  six.  "  Here  they  be,"  he 
calls  out.  "  No,  there  ain't  but  five  !  I'm  gettin' 
cross-eyed  so  I  can't  count.  Well,  there's  another. 
Now  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  have  the  whole  six  for  a 
dollar.  You  can't  afford  to  go  out  and  cut  a  stick 
when  you  c'n  buy  'em  like  that;"  and,  between  his 
eloquence  and  the  merits  (somewhat  uncertain)  of  his 
whips,  he  found  purchasers  in  plenty. 

There  were  several  shooting  galleries  on  the  grounds, 
and  their  popularity  was  attested  by  the  constant  pop 
of  rifles  and  by  the  ringing  of  bells  which  sounded 
automatically  whenever  a  bull's-eye  was  hit.  A  still 
more  popular  amusement,  and  one  that  had  an  almost 


THE  POUNDING-MACHINE 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show  309 

uninterrupted  run  of  custom,  was  a  merry-go-round. 
A  hand-organ  furnished  music,  and  two  stout,  sweating 
men  provided  power,  and  the  little  painted  horses 
spun  around  the  circle  very  gayly. 

Not  far  from  the  merry-go-round  was  a  pounding- 
machine.  You  gave  a  blow  with  a  heavy  wooden  beetle, 
and  a  marker  slid  up  a  tall  pole  to  show  the  weight  of 
your  stroke.  "  Well,  well,"  shouts  the  fellow  in 
charge,  "  who's  the  next  man  ?  Come,  gents,  try 
your  strength.  Well,  well,  it's  fun  —  only  costs  you 
half  a  dime,  and  you  find  out  just  how  much  the  cor- 
rect weight  of  every  blow  is.  Have  a  try,  gents.  You'll 
be  sorry  if  you  don't.  You'll  go  home  and  hear  your 
comrades  tell  what  they  can  do,  but  you  can't  tell  what 
you  can  do  without  telling  a  lie.  I'd  tell  one  hundred 
lies  for  a  nickel,  but  I  don't  believe  you  would." 

One  of  the  tents  was  a  photograph  gallery,  where 
you  could  get  your  tintype  taken  for  twenty-five  cents. 
"  Right  this  way,"  the  rowdy-looking  proprietor  was 
shouting  from  the  door,  "we're  on  earth  big  as  life 
and  twice  as  natural." 

His  next  neighbor  was  expatiating  on  the  unparal- 
leled charms  of  "  Conkey's  Great  Mechanical  World 
-perfect  working  figures  —  constantly  in  motion  — 
free  to  all  —  we  don't  ask  for  money — just  walk  right 
in,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  pay  ten  cents  when  you 
come  out  if  you  are  satisfied  —  if  you  are  not  satisfied 
don't  pay  anything." 


310  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

Such  as  succumbed  to  this  enticement  found  that 
the  tent  contained  a  platform  on  which  were  a  number 
of  miniature  buildings  and  people  made  to  represent 
a  real  village,  while  for  a  background  there  was  a 
painted  canvas  depicting  a  fine  assortment  of  blue 
cliffs,  waterfalls,  green  fields,  villas,  and  distant  towns. 
But  one's  attention  was  chiefly  absorbed  by  the  busy 
inhabitants  of  the  hamlet.  They  seemed  rather  rheu- 
matic and  stiff  in  the  joints,  yet  there  was  not  a  single 
idler  in  the  whole  lot.  The  chief  mansion  of  the  place 
was  undergoing  repairs,  and  a  Lilliputian  man  sat  on 
the  peak  of  the  roof  shingling,  a  mason  was  everlast- 
ingly putting  the  final  bricks  on  the  chimney,  and  a 
painter  was  at  work  on  a  balcony.  In  the  yard  below 
was  a  man  mixing  mortar,  and  three  carpenters  at  a 
bench  were  nailing,  sawing,  and  planing.  A  woman 
churning  on  the  piazza  and  another  woman  at  the  well 
drawing  water  represented  the  domestic  side  of  the 
home.  In  other  parts  of  the  village  were  a  black- 
smith's shop,  before  which  a  horse  was  being  shod,  a 
sawmill  going  full  blast,  and  a  railroad  station  with  the 
officials  all  attending  to  business.  Every  thirty  sec- 
onds a  train  rushed  through  the  hamlet.  It  came  from 
a  hole  at  the  left  and  disappeared  into  a  hole  at  the 
right,  labelled  "  Hoosac  Tunnel."  I  paid  ten  cents 
when  I  went  out. 

Another  chance  for  amusement  was  furnished  by  a 
man  with  a  blacked  face  and  clothing  stuffed  out 


The  Autumn  Cattle  Show  311 

ponderously  with  hay.  He  stood  at  the  farther  end 
of  a  little  fenced-off  space,  and  let  any  man  throw  three 
balls  at  him  who  would  pay  five  cents  for  the  privilege. 
If  you  hit  him,  you  could  have  a  cigar. 

One  booth  that  was  much  patronized  was  known  as 
the  "fish-pond."  In  its  open  front  was  set  a  shallow 
tank  of  water,  wherein  were  floating  many  little  slips 
of  wood,  or  "fish,"  each  bearing  a  concealed  number. 
On  the  walls  of  the  booth  were  all  the  articles  it  was 
possible  to  draw  numbered  to  correspond  with  the  fish 
in  the  tank  —  and  there  were  no  blanks,  the  proprie- 
tor said.  Every  one  got  his  money's  worth  and  you 
might  draw  the  grand  prize  —  a  pistol  or  a  gold  watch. 
Most  of  the  articles  were  valueless  trinkets,  but  among 
the  rest  hung  the  pistol  and  the  gold  watch,  with 
naught  between  you  and  possession  save  a  lucky  ten- 
cent  piece,  and  many  a  dime  was  staked  fruitlessly  on 
the  will-o'-the-wisp  chance. 

All  things  have  an  end,  and  cattle  show  is  no  excep- 
tion. As  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  waned  and 
the  exercises  on  the  race-course  were  drawing  to  a  close 
a  growing  restiveness  was  manifest  in  the  crowd.  The 
chill  of  the  autumn  evening  was  coming  on  and  dis- 
persion began  about  four  o'clock.  The  vendors  of 
perishable  fruits  and  eatables  dropped  their  prices,  and 
the  work  of  taking  down  the  tents  and  booths  and 
packing  up  commenced,  a  tinge  of  forlornness  and  des- 
olation crept  into  the  scene  and  the  fun  was  over.  Peo- 


312 


New  England  and  its   Neighbors 


pie  were  in  a  hurry  to  depart,  yet  they  were  not  in  such 
haste  as  to  neglect  to  drive  around  the  race-course  before 
they  went  out  the  gate.  This  spin  on  the  track  adds 
a  final  touch  of  completeness  to  the  occasion,  as  no 
man  who  has  any  pride  in  his  team  neglects  to  make 
the  circuit  at  least  once. 

So  ends  the  cattle  show,  though  its  memories  with 
the  meeting  of  friends,  the  excitement,  the  half-dozen 
whips  for  a  dollar,  the  many  circulars  gathered  free,  and 
a  colored  advertising  yardstick,  not  to  mention  the  chil- 
dren's catbags,  last  a  long  way  toward  the  fair  of  next 
year. 


Five  Cents  a  Throw  at  the  Dolls 


XIV 


CAPE    COD     FOLKS 


I 


T  was  densely  dark  when 
I  arrived  at  Yarmouth 
one    October    evening. 
Viewed    from    the    platform 
of    the    railway    station    the 
world  about  was  a  void   of 
inky  gloom. 

"if  you're  lookin'  for  the 
town,"  said  a  man  at  my 
elbow,  "  you'll  find  it  over 
in  that  direction ; "  and  he 
pointed  with  his  finger. 
"  You  follow  the  road  and 
turn  to  the  right  when  you've 
gone  half  a  mile  or  so,  and 
that'll  take  you  straight  into 
the  village." 

"  But  I  don't  see  any 
road,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  it  goes  around  the 
corner  of  that  little  shed  over  thar  that  the  light  from 
the  depot  shines  on." 

313 


A  Village  Sign 


j  14  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

"  And  how  far  is  it  to  a  hotel  ?  " 

"We  ain't  got  no  hotel  in  this  place;  but  Mr.  Sut- 
ton,  two  houses  beyond  the  post-office,  he  keeps  peo- 
ple, and  I  guess  he'll  take  you  in  all  right." 

I  trudged  off  along  the  vague  highway,  and  at  length 
reached  the  town  street,  a  narrow  thoroughfare  solidly 
overarched  by  trees.  Dwellings  were  numerous  on 
either  side,  and  lights  glowed  through  curtained  win- 
dows. How  snug  those  silent  houses  looked ;  and 
how  cheerless  seemed  the  outer  darkness  and  the 
empty  street  to  the  homeless  stranger !  I  lost  no 
time  in  hunting  up  Mr.  Sutton's,  and  the  shelter  he 
granted  brought  a  very  welcome  sense  of  relief. 

When  I  explored  Yarmouth  the  next  day  I  found 
it  the  most  attenuated  town  I  had  ever  seen.  The 
houses  nearly  all  elbowed  each  other  for  a  distance  of 
two  or  three  miles  close  along  a  single  slender  roadway. 
Very  few  dwellings  ventured  aside  from  this  double 
column.  Apparently  no  other  situation  was  orthodox, 
and  I  suppose  the  familes  which  lived  off  from  this  one 
street  must  have  sacrificed  their  social  standing  in  so 
doing. 

Yarmouth  was  settled  in  1639  and  is  the  oldest 
town  on  the  Cape.  Its  inhabitants  in  the  past  have 
been  famous  seafaring  folk,  and  fifty  years  ago  almost 
every  other  house  was  the  domicile  of  a  retired  sea- 
captain,  and  in  the  days  of  the  sailing  vessels  the  Yar- 
mouth men  voyaged  the  world  over.  A  certain  class 


Cape  Cod   Folks  315 

of  them  went  before  the  mast,  but  the  majority  were 
ship's  officers.  A  goodly  number  of  the  latter  amassed 
wealth  in  the  India  and  China  trade.  This  wealth  has 
descended  in  many  instances  still  intact  to  the  genera- 
tion of  to-day,  and  accounts  for  the  town's  air  of  easy- 
going comfort.  Fortunes,  however,  are  no  more  drawn 
from  the  old  source,  and  at  present  the  ambitious  youth 
who  aspires  to  riches  turns  his  eyes  cityward.  The  sea 
has  ceased  to  promise  a  bonanza.  Even  the  local  fish- 
ing industry  is  wholly  dead,  though  it  is  only  a  few 
decades  since  the  town  had  quite  a  mackerel  fleet ;  but 
the  little  craft  are  all  gone  now,  and  nothing  remains 
of  the  old  wharves  save  some  straggling  lines  of  black 
and  broken  piles  reaching  out  across  the  broad  marshes 
that  lie  between  the  long  street  and  the  salt  water. 

These  marshes  are  of  rather  more  economic  impor- 
tance to  modern  Yarmouth  than  the  sea  itself;  for 
grass  and  rank  sedges  cover  them  and  furnish  a  con- 
siderable proportion  of  the  hay  that  is  harvested.  I 
liked  to  loiter  on  their  wet  levels  and  watch  the  men 
swing  their  scythes.  I  noticed  that  they  left  un- 
touched the  coarse  grass  that  grew  on  the  strips  of 
sand.  "  That's  beach  grass,"  said  one  of  the  mowers 
with  whom  I  talked.  "  The  stock  won't  eat  that,  nor 
p.ny  other  creatures  won't  eat  it  that  I  know  of  except 
skunks.  Thar's  plenty  of  them  chaps  along  the 
shore  on  these  ma'shes,  and  me  'n'  my  dog  kitch  a  lot 
ot  'em  here  every  winter." 


316 


New  England  and  its  Neighbors 


The  route  back  to  the  town  from  the  marsh  on 
which  this  skunk  hunter  was  at  work  led  across  a  low 
ridge  of  stony  pasture-land  where  the  blackberry  vines 
displayed  their  ruddy  autumn  foliage  and  brightened 
the  earth  like  flashes  of  flame.  A  most  beautiful  little 
lane  threaded  along  the  crest  of  the  ridge.  It  was  only 


Anchoring  his  Haystacks 

about  a  dozen  feet  broad  and  was  hemmed  in  by  stone 
walls  overgrown  with  bushes,  among  which  rose  an 
occasional  tree.  The  paths  trodden  by  the  cows'  hoofs 
in  the  turf  of  the  lane  wandered  irregularly  along,  avoid- 
ing obstructions,  and,  as  a  rule,  following  the  line  of 
the  least  resistance.  There  was,  however,  now  and 


Cape  Cod   Folks  317 

then,  a  deflection,  which  the  cattle  had  made  pur- 
posely toward  the  thickest  of  the  bordering  brush, 
intent  on  crowding  up  against  the  twigs  to  rid  them- 
selves of  flies.  How  shadowy  and  protected  and  pas- 
toral the  lane  was  !  I  envied  the  boys  who  drove  the 
cows  and  thus  had  the  chances  to  make  a  daily  renewed 
acquaintance  with  its  arboreal  seclusion. 

Not  far  from  where  the  lane  emerged  on  the  village 
street  stood  a  dwelling  that  I  looked  at  with  interest 
every  time  I  passed.  It  was  a  low  and  primitive  struc- 
ture, and  behind  it  was  a  little  barn  surmounted  by 
a  swordfish  weather  vane.  Swordfish  or  ships,  I 
observed,  were  the  favorite  vanes  everywhere  for  Cape 
Cod  outbuildings.  The  attraction  of  this  home,  with 
its  curious  air  of  repose  under  the  shadowing  trees, 
grew  until  one  day  I  ventured  into  the  yard.  Near 
the  barn  a  gray-bearded  ancient  had  just  hitched  a 
venerable  horse  into  a  wagon,  and  was  preparing  to 
grease  the  vehicle's  wheels.  I  spoke  with  him,  and 
after  some  preliminaries  said,  "  It  appears  to  me  you 
have  about  the  oldest  house  in  town." 

He  gave  me  a  sudden  look  of  surprise  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eyes,  the  purport  of  which  I  did  not  at 
the  moment  understand,  and  then  went  on  with  his 
work.  "  Ye-ye-yes,"  he  replied,  in  his  hasty,  stam- 
mering way  ;  for  his  thoughts  seemed  to  start  ahead  of 
his  tongue  and  the  latter  gained  control  with  difficulty. 
"  Ye-ye-yes,  he  is  old,  but  he's  a  good  hoss  yit !  " 


318  New   England  and  its  Neighbors 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  say  horse,"  I  remarked  quickly.  "  I 
was  speaking  of  your  house." 

"  My  h-h-h-h-house,  hm-m-m  !  That  —  that's  one 
of  the  old  settlers.  Must  be  two  hundred  year  old  ; 
and  do  you  see  that  pear  tree  thar  with  the  piece  of 
zinc  nailed  over  the  bad  place  in  the  trunk,  and  the 
iron  bands  around  up  where  the  branches  begin,  so't 
they  won't  split  off?  I  s'pose  that  pear  tree's  as  old 
as  the  house." 

"What  kind  is  it?" 

"  It-it-it-it's  wha-what  we  call  the  old-fashioned 
button  pear.  Uncle  Peter  Thacher  that  had  this 
place  years  ago  used  to  pick  up  the  pears  and  sell 
'em  to  the  boys  for  a  cent  apiece.  They  ain't  much 
larger'n  wa'nuts.  They're  kind  of  a  mealy  kind  of 
a  pear,  you  know  —  very  good  when  they  first  drop 
off,  but  they  rot  pretty  quick." 

The  man  had  finished  applying  the  wheel  grease 
now,  and  he  clambered  into  the  wagon  and  drove  off, 
while  I  walked  on.  I  passed  entirely  through  the 
village  into  a  half-wild  region  beyond,  where  much 
of  the  land  was  covered  by  a  dense  pine  wood.  There 
were  occasional  farm  clearings  ;  but  I  noticed  that  the 
houses  of  this  outlying  district  were  generally  vacant. 
Opposite  one  of  the  deserted  homes  was  a  corn-field 
that  attracted  my  attention  because  the  tops  of  the 
corn  stalks  had  been  cut  off  and  carted  away,  and  the 
ears  left  on  the  stubs  to  ripen.  This  was  a  common 


An  Autumn  Corn-field 
The  tops  of  the  stalks  have  been  cut  off  for  fodder 

way  of  treating  corn    years    ago,  but   is    seldom    seen 
now.      Here  and  there  in  the  field  were  scarecrows  — 
sometimes  an   old    coat    and    hat   hoisted    on   a  stake ; 
sometimes  a  pole  with  a  fluttering  rag  at  the  top,  and, 


320  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

suspended  a  little  lower  down  on  the  same  pole,  a 
couple  of  rusty  tin  cans  that  rattled  together  dubiously 
in  the  breeze.  As  I  was  leaning  over  the  roadside 
wall  contemplating  this  corn-field  a  man  came  along 
and  accosted  me,  and  I  improved  the  opportunity  to 
ask  him  why  so  many  of  the  houses  of  the  neighbor- 
hood were  unoccupied. 

"  Wai,"  said  he,  "  people  don't  like  to  live  outside 
o'  the  villages  nowadays.  Sence  the  fishin'  give  out, 
the  young  folks  all  go  off  to  get  work,  and  they  settle 
somewhar  else,  and  the  old  folks  move  into  the  towns. 
In  this  house  across  the  road,  though,  an  old  woman 
lived,  and  she  died  thar  two  years  ago.  She  was  kind 
o'  queer,  and  some  say  she  wa'n't  a  woman  at  all. 
She  wore  women's  clothes,  but  she  had  a  beard  and 
shaved  every  mornin',  and  her  hair  was  cut  short,  and 
she  carried  on  the  farm  and  did  the  work  just  like  a 
man." 

My  acquaintance  spit  meditatively  and  then  inquired, 
"  Have  you  seen  Hog  Island  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  responded. 

"You'd  ought  to.  It  ain't  fur  from  tother  end  of 
Yarmouth  village.  You  go  down  the  lane  along  the 
crick  thar  and  ask  the  way  of  Jimmy  Holton  that 
lives  by  the  bridge.  He'll  tell  you.  It  ain't  really 
an  island,  but  a  bunch  o'  trees  in  a  little  ma'sh,  and 
they  grow  so't  if  you  see  'em  from  the  right  place 
they  look  just  like  a  hog  —  snout,  tail,  and  all." 


Cape  Cod  Folks 


321 


The  man  had  in  his  hand  a  large  scoop  with  a  row 
of  long  wooden  teeth  projecting  from  its  base.  This 
is  the  kind  of  implement 
used  in  gathering  most  of 
the  Cape  Cod  cranberries, 
and  the  man  was  on  his 
way  to  a  berry  patch  he 
cultivated  in  a  boggy  hol- 
low, not  far  distant.  I  ac- 
companied him  and  found 
his  wife  and  children  on 
their  knees,  each  armed 
with  a  scoop  with  which 
they  were  industriously 
scratching  through  the 
low  mat  of  vines.  Where 
they  had  not  yet  picked, 
the  little  vines  were 
twinkled  all  over  with  ripe 
berries  —  genuine  autumn 
fruit,  waxen-skinned,  rud- 
dy-hued,  and  acid  to  the 
tongue  —  as  if  the  atmos- 
pheric tartness  and  cool- 
ness had  helped  the  sun 

1  A  Cranberry  Picker 

to  dye  and  flavor  them. 

The  bog  was   not  at  all   wild.      In  preparing  it  for 
cranberry    culture,    it    had    been    thoroughly    tamed. 


322  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

Brush  and  stumps  had  been  cleared  off  and  the  turf 
removed.  Then  it  had  been  levelled  and  coated  with 
a  layer  of  sand.  It  was  encompassed  and  more  or  less 
cut  across  by  ditches ;  and,  in  the  process  of  clearing, 
steep  banks  had  been  heaved  up  around  the  borders. 


Harvest  on  a  Cranberry  Bog 

"  Cranberries  are  a  great  thing  for  the  Cape,"  said 
my  friend.  "  They're  the  best  crop  we  have,  but  it's 
only  late  years  we've  gone  into  'em.  When  I  was  a 
boy,  the  only  cranberries  we  used  to  have  was  a  little 
sort  that  growed  in  the  bogs  wild ;  and  we  never 
thought  nothin'  o'  dreanin'  the  ma'shes  and  goin'  into 
the  business  the  way  we  do  now. 

"  My  bog  ain't  fust  class.     A  man's  got  to  put  a 


Cape  Cod  Folks  323 

lot  o'  work  into  raisin'  cranberries  to  do  the  thing  just 
right,  and  when  you  only  got  a  small  bog  you  kind  o' 
neglectify  it.  There's  one  bog  about  a  mile  from  here 
that's  got  sixteen  acres  in  it,  and  they're  always  tendin' 
to  it  in  one  way  and  another  the  year  around.  They 
keep  it  clear  of  weeds,  and  if  there's  any  sign  of  fire- 
bug they  steep  tobacco  and  spray  the  vines.  If  there's 
a  dry  spell  they  rise  the  water,  though  that  don't  do 
as  much  good  as  it  might.  You  c'n  water  a  plant  all 
you  want  to,  but  waterin'  won't  take  the  place  o'  rain. 

"  Pretty  soon  after  we  finish  pickin'  we  flood  the 
bogs  and  they  stay  flooded  all  winter,  if  the  mushrats 
don't  dig  through  the  banks.  The  water  keeps  the 
plants  from  freezin'  and  seems  to  kind  o'  fertilize  them 
at  the  same  time.  The  ponds  make  grand  skatin' 
places.  They  freeze  over  solid  —  no  weak  spots  — 
and  they  ain't  deep  enough  to  be  dangerous,  even  if 
you  was  to  break  through." 

This  man's  statement  as  to  the  importance  of  cran- 
berry culture  to  the  dwellers  on  the  Cape  was  in  nowise 
exaggerated.  When  I  continued  my  journeyings  later 
to  the  far  end  of  the  peninsula  I  saw  reclaimed  berry 
bogs  innumerable.  There  was  scarcely  a  swampy 
depression  anywhere  but  that  had  been  ditched  and 
diked  and  the  body  of  it  laid  off  as  smooth  as  a  floor 
and  planted  to  cranberries.  The  pickers  were  hard  at 
work  —  only  two  or  three  of  them  on  some  bogs,  on 
others  a  motley  score  or  more.  It  seemed  as  if  the 


324  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

task  engaged  the  entire  population  irrespective  of  age 
and  sex ;  and  the  picking  scenes  were  greatly  bright- 
ened by  the  presence  of  the  women  in  their  calico 
gowns  and  sunbonnets  or  broad-brimmed  straw  hats. 
Often  the  bogs  were  far  enough  from  home,  so  that 
the  workers  carried  their  dinners  and  made  the  labor 
an  all-day  picnic,  though  I  thought  the  crouching  posi- 
tion must  grow  rather  wearisome  after  a  time. 

Aside  from  the  fertile  and  productive  bogs  the  aspect 
of  the  Cape  was  apt  to  be  monotonous  and  sombre. 
The  cultivated  fields  appeared  meagre  and  unthrifty, 
the  pastures  were  thin-grassed  and  growing  up  to 
brush,  and,  more  predominant  than  anything  else  in 
the  landscape,  were  the  great  tracts  of  scrubby  wood- 
land, covered  with  dwarfed  pines  and  oaks,  often  fire- 
ravaged,  and  never  a  tree  in  them  of  respectable  size. 
Ponds  and  lakes  were  frequent.  So  were  the  inlets 
from  the  sea  with  their  borderings  of  salt  marsh ; 
indeed,  the  raggedness  of  the  shore  line  was  sugges- 
tive of  a  constant  struggle  between  the  ocean  and  the 
continent  for  the  possession  of  this  slender  outreach  of 
the  New  England  coast.  The  buffeting  of  the  fierce 
sea  winds  was  evident  in  the  upheave  of  the  sand  dunes 
and  the  landward  tilt  of  the  exposed  trees  —  trees  that 
had  a  very  human  look  of  fear,  and  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  flee  from  the  persecuting  gales,  but  to  be  retarded 
by  laggard  feet. 

At  the  jumping-off  tip  of  the  Cape  is  Provincetown, 


Cape  Cod  Folks  325 

snugged  along  the  shore,  with  steep  protecting  hills  at 
its  back.  It  is  a  town  that  has  an  ancient  old-world 
look  due  to  its  narrow  streets,  with  houses  and  stores 
and  little  shops  crowded  close  along  the  walks.  It  is 
a  fishy  place,  odorous  of  the  sea,  and  the  waterside  is 
lined  with  gray  fish-shanties  and  storehouses.  Many 
spindle-legged  wharves  reach  out  across  the  beach,  and 
there  are  dories  and  small  sailing-craft  in  and  about 
the  harbor,  and  always  a  number  of  schooners,  and 
occasionally  a  larger  vessel. 

The  inhabitants  love  the  sea  or  else  are  involun- 
tarily fascinated  by  it.  They  delight  to  loiter  on  "the 
wharves  and  beach,  and  to  sit  and  look  out  on  old 
ocean's  wrinkled  surface  and  contemplate  its  hazy 
mystery.  One  would  fancy  they  thought  it  replete 
with  beneficent  possibilities,  and  that  they  were  willing 
lingerers  dreamily  expecting  something  fortunate  or 
fateful  would  heave  into  view  from  beyond  the  dim 
horizon.  The  children  seek  the  beach  as  assiduously 
as  their  elders.  It  is  their  playground,  their  news- 
paper. They  poke  about  the  wharves  strewn  with 
barrels  and  boxes,  spars,  chains,  ropes,  anchors,  etc. ; 
they  find  treasures  in  the  litter  that  gathers  on  the 
sands  ;  they  dig  clams  on  the  mud-flats  ;  they  race  and 
tumble,  and  they  learn  all  that  is  going  on  in  the 
shipping. 

The  most  exciting  event  while  I  was  in  town  was 
an  unexpected  catch  of  squids  in  the  harbor.  Squids 


326  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

are  the  favorite  bait  of  the  cod  fishermen,  but  at 
Provincetown  there  is  rarely  a  chance  to  get  this 
bait  so  late  in  the  year.  The  squids  sought  the 
deepest  portion  of  the  bay,  and  a  little  fleet  of  small 
boats  collected  above  and  captured  them  by  the  barrel- 
ful.  One  midday  I  stood  watching  the  boats  from 
a  wharf.  Two  men  who  had  come  onto  the  wharf 
soon  after  I  did  were  regarding  the  scene  from  near 
by.  "  It's  queer  how  them  squids  hang  in  that  deep 
hole  thar,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"  They  bring  a  good  price  for  cod  bait,  I  believe," 
said  I. 

"Yes,  Willie  Scott,  that  lives  next  door  to  me,  he 
made  seven  dollars  this  morning  and  has  gone  out 
ag'in.  I'll  bet  his  eyes  are  full  of  squid  juice  this 
minute.  The  squids  don't  trouble  much  that  way, 
but  they'll  flip  up  a  smeller  (that's  what  we  call  their 
arms)  and  give  you  a  dose  once  in  a  while,  spite  of  all 
you  can  do.  It  makes  your  eyes  sting,  but  the  sting 
don't  last  long." 

"  How  large  are  these  squids  ?  "   I  asked. 

"Oh,  they're  small  —  not  much  more'n  a  foot  and 
a  half,  smellers  and  all." 

The  other  man  now  spoke.  He  was  short  and 
dark,  had  rings  in  his  ears,  and  his  accent  was  de- 
cidedly foreign.  "  Cap'n  Benson,"  said  he,  to  his 
companion,  "  I  seen  the  butt  end  of  a  squid  smeller 
big  as  this  barrel  what  I'm  settin'  on." 


Cape  Cod  Folks 

Cap'n  Benson  puffed  a  few  times  judiciously  at  his 
pipe.  "  Yes,"  he  acknowledged  presently,  "  there's  a 
good  many  kinds  of  squids,  and  they  do  kitch  'em 
large  enough  so  one'll  last  a  cod  schooner  for  bait  a 
whole  v'yage.  We  only  get  a  little  kind  here." 


Looking  over  the  Cod  Lines 

The  wharf  we  were  on  was  nearly  covered  with 
racks  on  which  a  great  quantity  of  salted  codfish  had 
been  spread  to  dry,  and  Cap'n  Benson  informed  me 
there  was  plenty  more  fish  awaiting  curing  in  the  hold 
of  a  slender-masted  vessel  that  lay  alongside  the  wharf. 

"  She's  a  Grand-Banker  —  this  schooner  is  that 
brought  these  fish,"  he  continued.  "  We  ain't  got 
but  six  Grand-Bankers  now,  and  only  fifteen  fresh 


328  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

fishermen.  The  fresh  fishermen,  you  know,  don't 
go  farther'n  the  Georges  and  the  West  Banks.  Forty 
years  ago  we  had  two  hundred  fishing  schooners  owned 
here,  and  we  had  sixty-seven  whale  ships  where  now 
we  got  only  three.  Provincetown  is  played  out. 
This  mornin'  me  and  this  man  with  me  didn't  have 
but  one  hour's  work,  and  we  won't  have  over  two 
hours  this  afternoon.  How  you  goin'  to  make  a 
livin'  at  twenty  cents  an  hour  with  things  goin'  on 
that  way  ?  Forty  years  ago  you  couldn't  get  enough 
men  at  three  dollars  and  a  half  a  day." 

The  man  with  the  ear-rings  had  picked  up  a  piece  of 
shell  and  was  attempting  to  drop  it  from  the  height 
of  his  shoulder  through  a  crack  in  the  wharf.  He 
failed  to  accomplish  his  purpose  though  he  tried  again 
and  again. 

"  Mr.  Klunn,  if  you  want  to  drop  that  shell  through 
thar,  just  mention  the  minister,"  advised  Cap'n  Benson. 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  Mr.  Klunn  let  the 
shell  fall,  and  it  slipped  straight  through  the  crack. 
"  I  godfrey  !  "  exclaimed  the  Cap'n,  "  I  did  it  for  you. 
I  never  known  that  to  fail.  When  I  been  whaling, 
and  we  was  cutting  up  the  whale,  you  couldn't  some- 
times strike  a  j'int.  You'd  try  and  try  and  you  couldn't 
strike  it,  and  then  you'd  stop  and  say  '  Minister ! '  and 
it  was  done  already  —  you'd  hit  the  j'int  right  off." 

"  I  seen  a  whale  heave  up  a  shark  the  half  as  big 
as  a  dory,"  remarked  Mr.  Klunn,  after  a  pause. 


Cape  Cod  Folks  329 

ctTo  be  sure,"  the  Cap'n  commented.  "  How- 
somever,  there's  people  say  a  whale  can't  take  in 
nothin'  bigger'n  a  man's  hand ;  but  my  idea  is  that's 
after  he's  been  eatin'  and  had  all  he  wanted." 

"  By  gosh  !  a  whale  got  a  swallow  so  big  enough,  if 
he  hongry,  he  swallow  a  man  easy,"  Mr.  Klunn  de- 
clared. "  Some  peoples  ain't  believe  about  Jonah,  but 
they  believe  if  they  seen  as  much  whales  that  I  have." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  about  them  squids,"  Cap'n  Benson 
said,  as  he  shook  his  pipe  free  from  ashes  and  slipped 
it  into  the  pocket  of  his  jacket.  "  I  guess  when  the 
tide  comes  in  to-night,  I'll  haul  out  my  boat  and  see 
if  I  can't  get  some  of 'em." 

"  I  ain't  had  no  boat  since  the  big  storm,"  observed 
the  man  with  ear-rings. 

"  What  storm  was  that  ?  "   I  inquired. 

"It  was  when  the  Portland  went  down,  in  Novem- 
ber, 1899,"  explained  Cap'n  Benson.  "We  had  an 
awtul  time  —  wharves  smashed,  boat-houses  carried  off, 
and  vessels  wrecked.  It  begun  to  blow  in  the  night. 
Fust  thing  I  knowed  of,  it  was  my  chimley  comin' 
down." 

"  I  was  sick  that  time,"  said  the  ear-ring  man.  "  The 
doctor  had  to  give  me  murphine  pills.  I  was  in  the 
bed  two,  three  days,  and  I  lose  one  hundred  and 
eighty-seven  dollar  by  the  storm.  You  remember 
that  schooner,  Cap'n  Benson,  what  the  two  old  mens 
was  drownded  on  ?  " 


3JO  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

"Oh,  I  remember  —  washed  overboard  out  here  in 
the  harbor,  and  the  wind  took  the  schooner  bang  up 
ag'in  a  wharf,  and  the  cap'n,  he  made  a  jump  and 
landed  all  right,  and  he  never  stopped  to  look  behind 
to  see  what  become  of  his  vessel  nor  nobody.  He 
run  up  into  the  town  and  he  took  the  next  train  for 
California." 

"  Yas,  that's  true,"  Mr.  Klunn  affirmed. 

Later,  while  stopping  over  night  at  a  Truro  farm- 
house, a  few  miles  back  on  the  Cape,  I  heard  more  of 
the  great  storm.  "  Thar  was  three  days  of  it,"  said 
my  landlady,  "  startin'  on  Saturday.  It  thundered 
and  lightened  on  Sunday,  and  it  snowed  Monday. 
Everythin'  that  wa'n't  good  'n'  strong  was  blowed 
down.  It  blowed  the  shed  off  the  end  of  our  house, 
and  it  blowed  a  window  in  upstairs,  and  it  blowed  the 
saddle  boards  off  the  roof  and  .some  o'  the  shingles. 
We  had  the  highest  tide  we've  ever  had,  and  there 
was  places  where  the  sea-water  come  across  the  roads. 
Monday  the  bodies  begun  to  be  washed  ashore  from 
the  Portland,  and  they  kep'  comin'  in  for  two  weeks." 

Truro  is  a  scattered  little  country  place.  Its  homes 
dot  every  protected  hollow.  The  only  buildings  that 
seemed  independent  of  the  smiting  of  the  winter  blasts 
were  the  town  hall  and  the  Baptist,  Methodist,  and 
Catholic  churches.  These  stood  in  a  group  on  the 
barest,  bleakest  hilltop.  The  churchyards  were  thick- 
set with  graves,  and  among  the  stones  grew  little  tan- 


AN  OLD  WHARF 


Cape  Cod   Folks 


33 


gles  of  sumachs  and  other  bushes,  but  the  sandy  height 
had  not  a  single  tree. 

On  this  hill,  years  ago,  stood  still  another   public 
institution  —  a  windmill.      "It  sot  high  up  thar,  so't 


Public  Buildings  on  the  Hilltop 

it  was  in  sight  all  over  town,"  said  my  landlady.  "You 
could  see  the  miller  puttin'  the  sails  on  the  arms,  and 
then  when  they  got  to  turnin'  we'd  know  which  way 
the  wind  blowed.  But  some  days  there  wouldn't  be 
no  wind,  and  the  sails  might  hang  there  and  not  turn 
the  whole  day  long.  We  used  to  raise  this  yaller  In- 
jun corn  then,  a  good  deal  more'n  we  do  now  on 
the  Cape,  and  we  raised  rye,  and  we'd  take  the  grain 
to  the  windmill  to  grind.  You  can't  buy  no  such  corn 
meal  or  rye  meal  now  as  we  used  to  get  from  that  old 
mill.  We  e't  hasty-pudding  them  days,  and  it  used 


332  New  England  and  its  Neighbors 

to  be  so  nice  !  and  we  had  Johnny-cake,  and  hasty- 
pudding  bread  that  was  made  by  putting  some  of  the 
hasty-pudding  into  flour  and  mixing  'em  up  into  dough 
together." 

Of  the  churches  on  the  hill  the  Catholic  was  the 
newest.  It  was  a  little  shed  of  a  building  with  a  gilt 
cross  surmounting  the  front  gable.  The  attendants 
were  chiefly  Portuguese,  the  nationality  which  at  pres- 
ent constitutes  the  great  majority  of  the  coast  fisher- 
folk.  Most  of  the  fishing  is  done  in  rowboats,  and 
the  fish  are  caught  in  nets  fastened  to  lines  of  stakes 
offshore.  These  fish-traps,  as  they  are  called,  are 
visited  daily.  The  crew  of  a  rowboat  usually  consists 
of  a  "  Cap'n,"  who  is  pretty  sure  to  be  a  Yankee,  and 
seven  men  who  are  likely  to  be  all  Portuguese.  Truro 
had  four  rowboats  thus  manned.  They  started  out 
at  three  in  the  morning  and  returned  anywhere  from 
noon  to  eight  in  the  evening. 

"It's  hard  work,"  explained  my  landlady,  "and  the 
Yankee  men  don't  take  up  fishin',  late  years,  the  way 
they  did.  I  reckon  they  c'n  make  more  money  farm- 
in'." 

I  wondered  at  this.  The  sandy  soil  did  not  look 
productive,  and  yet  the  houses  as  a  rule  were  painted 
and  in  good  repair,  and  conveyed  a  pleasing  impres- 
sion of  prosperity  The  people  with  whom  I  talked 
seemed  to  be  satisfied.  "  We  git  good  crops,"  said 
a  farmer  I  questioned  about  agricultural  affairs.  "  We 


Cape  Cod  Folks 


333 


A  Cape  Cod  Roadway 

c'n  raise  most  all  kinds  o'  vegetables  in  the  hollers, 
and  good  grass,  too,  though  our  heaviest  crops  o' 
grass  we  git  off'n  the  ma'shes.  The  cows  like  salt 
hay  fully  as  well  as  they  do  fresh  hay,  and  they  like 
sedge  best  of  all,  because  it's  sweet ;  but  you  have  to 
be  careful  about  feedin'  'em  too  much  of  that  or  the 
milk'll  taste.  Of  course  we  got  plenty  o'  pasture 
on  the  higher  ground  and  plenty  o'  timber  sich  as  'tis. 
The  trees  don't  flourish,  though,  and  you  won't  find 
many  that  are  much  bigger'n  your  leg.  This  is  a 
great  country  for  wild  berries  —  blueberries,  black- 
berries, and  huckleberries.  Our  Portuguese  here  — 
land  !  they  git  half  their  livin'  in  the  woods.  Besides 


334  New  England  and  its   Neighbors 

berries  there's  beach  plums  and  wild  cherries.  But  the 
cherries  we  don't  use  for  common  eatin'.  We  put 
'em  up  in  molasses,  and  they  kind  o'  work  and  are 
good  to  take  for  the  stomach  and  the  like  o'  that." 

I  climbed  over  the  hills  round  about  Truro  and 
tramped  the  sandy,  deeply  rutted  roads  faithfully.  It 
was  weary  work  to  one  used  to  solid  earth.  Such 
lagging  progress  !  I  could  never  get  a  good  grip  with 
my  feet,  and  slipped  a  little  backward  every  time  I 
took  a  step  forward.  Except  along  the  watercourses 
nature's  growths  never  attained  the  least  exuberance. 
The  grass  on  the  slopes  and  uplands  was  very  thin, 
and  with  the  waning  of  the  season  much  of  it  had 
become  wispy  and  withered.  It  was  mingled  with 
goldenrod  and  asters  that  hugged  the  earth  on  such 
short,  stunted  stems  as  to  be  hardly  recognizable. 

The  landscape  as  viewed  from  a  height  had  a  curi- 
ously unstable  look.  Its  form  had  not  been  moulded 
by  attrition,  but  the  soil  had  been  blown  into  vast 
billows  that  had  the  appearance  of  a  troubled  sea 
whose  waves  were  on  the  point  of  advancing  and  over- 
whelming the  habitations  and  all  the  green  growing 
things  in  the  vales.  Some  of  the  dunes  really  do 
advance,  and  the  state  has  been  obliged  to  make 
appropriations  and  devise  means  for  checking  their 
depredations.  The  work  has  chiefly  been  accom- 
plished with  the  aid  of  beach  grass.  This  has  an 
affiliation  for  sand,  and  you  can  stick  one  of  its  coarse, 


Cape  Cod   Folks 


335 


wiry  tufts  in  anywhere  and  it  will  grow.  It  only  needs 
to  be  methodically  planted,  and  the  shifting  dunes  are 
fast  ftound  and  the  winds  assail  them  in  vain. 

Some  of  the  characteristics  of  this  beach  grass  seemed 
also  to  be  characteristics  of  the  people  of  the  Cape. 
They  have  the  same  hardiness  and  endurance,  and, 
like  the  beach  grass,  have  adapted  themselves  to  their 
environment  and  thrive  where  most  would  fail.  With 
its  omnipresent  sand  and  dwarf  woods,  the  Cape,  as  I 
saw  it  at  the  fag  end  of  the  year,  appeared  rather  dreary, 
but  the  prosperous  look  of  the  homes  was  very  cheer- 
ing. These  are  nearly  all  owned  free  from  debt,  and 
that  nightmare  of  the  agriculturists  in  so  many  parts 
of  New  England  —  a  mortgage  —  is  happily  almost 
unknown  among  the  Cape  Cod  folks. 


The  Mowers  on  the  Marshes 


14 


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